


Living in a Lonesome Galaxy

by orphan_account



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: AU, Autistic Keith (Voltron), Cheap Space Soap Opera, Five-Person Pacific Rim Drift, Gen, Multi, Nonbinary Pidge | Katie Holt, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-04-01 04:53:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13990872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: [FOREVER INCOMPLETE]  Takashi Shirogane's only been back on Earth for about five minutes when he and four other humans are recruited into a psychic super-squad and summoned to the Space UN.  Sometimes life is normal, and sometimes you have a metal arm you don't remember getting and you fall in love with alien royalty times two.  Sometimes it's just like that.





	1. when I'm gone, when I'm dead

**Author's Note:**

> Short chapters, short story, test fic for my new OT3. No giant lion robots, but lots of psychic teamwork. I'm using the old-ass Voltron surnames even though it feels weird.  
> I'm working on a different concept right now that I'm way more excited about so I'm gonna try and knock this story out right quick.

The man opens his eyes.

It’s hot here.  Where he is. That’s not right.  Where he was, it was--cold--where was he?

_Kerberos._

Fear sears in his chest, sharp and sudden as a knife.  His body tries to jolt upright, but every muscle screams in protest and all along his back there’s a horrible sensation of splitting.  Tears opening in his skin, against the hot, coarse sand beneath him. He settles back, heart pounding, trying to breathe, find the peace floating above the fear.  He’s a soldier; he knows how to do this, he knows--

It’s not working.  He lies there, and breathes, and tries to remember himself.

Information filters in as his senses come back to him over time immeasurable.

The sky is blue.  He can breathe the air.  He’s back on Earth.

He’s not breathing through his helmet filters.  He’s not wearing a helmet at all.

He’s not wearing clothes at all.

That’s enough to get him to try sitting up again, hissing through rough-chapped lips.  Dust and sand sift off of his body, leaving a clinging layer of grit. The sky stretches dusky, robin’s egg blue above a scrubby expanse of rosy sand and wind-worn stone.

And in the distance, a wavering strip of gray.

A road.  A way out.

_Stand up, soldier._

He stands up.

It’s only after a few minutes of walking, when he raises a hand to wipe his eyes, that he notices the arm.

\--

_The galactic upset following Voltron’s choice of a new host planet was difficult to explain to the planet in question.  Earth’s dominant species thought of themselves as quite advanced, but Voltron is eons beyond their technological evolution.  It’s like giving a child their own laser rifle...if the laser rifle were sentient and chose the child itself. Either way, it didn’t make sense.  But either way, the testing took place and Earth was going to have to get used to the idea along with everyone else._

_King Alfor of Altea was more than pleased to lead the embassy of Explaining Priceless Ancient Psychic Weapons to An Underdeveloped Planet.  He may have been royalty, but as his wife has confided in certain close friends, he was an alchemist at heart. He would rather be lecturing about Interdimensionality of Quintessence at a university than dealing with matters of state.  And as Simura was more than pleased to take care of those matters herself, it all worked out._

\--

Takashi Shirogane is back on earth.  

Last seen on a tiny, double-lobed Plutonian moon called Kerberos, he reappeared two years later in the Mojave desert with no memory of where he’d been.  Shiro’s mission companions, who were rappelling down into an ice cave, reported hearing a deep rumble (“like some kind of massive aircraft!” and seeing a flash of bright violet light.  But when they reached the top of the pit again, the source of the noise and light was gone. And so was Shiro.

Maybe the worst part is catching up with the news related to his disappearance.  Some news networks were impartial, presenting the facts without leading commentary, but others were quicker to speculate.   _(“Why were the details of the account so fuzzy?  Why did the shuttle’s video feed cut out well before the moment when Takashi Shirogane supposedly vanished?  What are Sam and Matt Holt hiding?”)_

It’s enough to make him sick to his stomach.  He’s tried, unsuccessfully, to get in touch with the Holts since his return.  He’s made call after call to ask the Galaxy Garrison for a public announcement of their innocence.  But no matter how much he does to defend his friends--the men he spent years with, traversing open space to a distant moon--the Holt name remains thoroughly discredited.

Shiro spends most of his early days back on earth in a hospital bed.  He feels--well, it’s hard to describe. He feels...complicated. Himself, but markedly, undeniably changed.  One moment he was on Kerberos, and the next he was lying somewhere in the Mojave desert, buck-naked, with a metal arm.

The arm.  The doctors are always doing tests, taking blood, scanning him.  And every time the results are weirder, more subtly horrifying. His body is...changed.   _Scars everywhere, loss of pigmentation in the hair,_ that’s bad enough.  And then they move on to, _He’s malnourished, we don’t know what he’s coughing up, there are trace elements we don’t recognize, he wasn’t on Earth, he wasn’t on_ Kerberos, _he might not have been in this solar system._

But the arm is the most obvious difference, and possibly the strangest.  He’s heard a thousand arguments over the stupid thing since he ended up in the hospital.  His return is a private thing, at first, thanks to patient confidentiality and his lack of local family.  But with his permission, scientists are called in. Their reactions are...unexpected. They keep coming back to the same question: _But is it alien tech?  It has to be, right? No, I_ know _this was before the--let me finish, damn it!  It’s not from Earth, right?!_ Ergo _it’s_ alien technology!

So, that’s the other thing.

There are aliens now.

\--

_“It is, er…”  Alfor, who seemed set on learning English rather than relying on his translation unit, referred briefly to a dictionary.  “...an...A.I.”_

_“Artificial intelligence, sure,” said one of the scientists, looking pleased with themself._

_Alfor beamed at them, eyes practically sparkling with Teaching Moment enthusiasm.  “No no,_ Astral Intelligence! _Similar!  Technological, in a sense, but not artificial.  Living. And split into five distinct consciousnesses, which are connected to the armor and bayards which I mentioned earlier!  Through Voltron, they share a unique psychic bond and can work seamlessly togethers as warriors of justice, for the good of the universe!”_

_Silence from the assembled scientists.  Alfor, frozen in an attitude of jubilant victory, slowly lowered his fists, looking very sheepish for an the king of a whole planet.  “...Any questions?’_

_There are a lot of questions._

\--

They didn’t come in person, not at first.  All signs point to the First Contact being a result of Earth’s experiments in warp gate technology, and in response humanity received...an encyclopedia.  It landed in Tokyo, Japan: an unbelievably massive compilation of galaxies and planets and races in the wider universe, all tucked neatly into a matte gray cube no bigger than a child’s building block.  And there are _maps_ , or rather one unfathomably huge map that quickly learned to respond to voice cues in English, Japanese, Xhosa, and Tagalog.

The Alteans arrived next, though only after politely notifying every messaging device on the planet that they would be visiting, and would Earth please refrain from responding violently?  Thank you.

Apparently they were chosen for their diplomatic skills and their resemblance to humanity--a resemblance so close that thousands of internet forums erupted in outrage over the apparent “alien hoax”.  Social media responses to the Alteans’ arrival ranged from _”lmao it’s literally just cosplay come on guys”_ to _“DOES ANYONE WATCH MOVIES THEIR OBVSLY HERE TO DESTROY THE PLANT KILL THE ALIEN FUCKS”_ (followed by thirty responses along the lines of _“lol *planet *they’re”_ ).

Shiro has to admit, watching the videos: the Alteans do look like fantasy elves.  The pointed ears, mesmerizing opalescent eyes, and sleek white armor...  He’s almost ready to believe they’re just humans wearing costumes, but then there’s _this_ footage.  

A gorgeous purple-haired Altean steps forward from their ranks and _changes_.  Shrinks, changes their skin color from dark brown to moss-green, blinks their eyes red.  And there are a thousand different videos of it, each from a different angle--too many to fake.  This is honest-to-god alien shapeshifting.

That’s the moment that tips the scales for Shiro, sends him spiralling into terrified uncertainty.  Because he can take the scars, the lab results, the _arm_ even.  He’s alive and that’s what matters, he’s always relied on that mantra.  But he thought he was home, and now it turns out that home is different too.

Nothing is the same.  Nothing is safe.

\--

When he leaves the hospital a month later, it’s technically against medical advice.  But, Shiro thinks, they’d probably “advise” him to stay there for another year or so just to run more tests on him.  He can walk and his bank account has been reactivated. That’s good enough for him. And he could probably reach the Galaxy Garrison by bus from here, maybe get his old job back.  No reason not to think positive for now.

Against all odds, the air outside is crisp and cool--unusual for California, even in the fall.  Shiro hasn’t gone shopping for clothes, but the staff provided him with a secondhand suit, which, to their credit, fits alright.  Just a little tight across the chest. But they got him gloves, too, so at least his metal hand is covered. Not that prosthetics are uncommon on Earth these days, but Shiro still isn’t...entirely comfortable showing his off.

Disgruntled pedestrians, bundled up against the unusual chill, bustle past without giving Shiro a second glance.  He has to give it to the hospital: they’ve kept his presence on their third floor a consummate secret. There isn’t even a single reporter waiting for him outside.

There is someone, though.  A young man, maybe twenty or so, sitting on a bench by the door, elbows propped on his knees with a deeply brooding air.  He glances up as Shiro turns past him, does an impressive double take, and jumps up.

“Shiro!  Shiro, hey!  It’s me!”

Not unlike the rest of Earth, Keith Kogane looks both the same and different to Shiro.  In fairness, the last time Shiro saw him was months before the journey to Kerberos, so it’s been longer even than the two years he lost.  But it’s still weird. He has a _ponytail._

“Hey,” says Keith, and takes a quick, deep breath.  A long exhale. “Uh. You’re back.”

“I’m back.”  Shiro half-smiles as he spreads his arms.   _Look, here I am._

Keith coughs, valiantly maintaining his stoic attitude.  “I have... _so_ many questions.”

“I don’t have a lot of answers,” says Shiro ruefully.  “Come on, let’s walk. I’ve been in there for two months...need a change of scenery.”

“Where are we going?”

“There’s gotta be a restaurant around here somewhere,” says Shiro hopefully, peering up and down the street.  “I’m feeling Thai food. How about you?”

He feels Keith slow down beside him and glances over, frowning.  “...What?”

Keith folds his arms, gripping the sleeves of his jacket.  He doesn’t answer for a moment, but a muscle in his jaw is working and his eyes are dark.  Shiro waits patiently for him to speak.

“...Where were you?  No offense, but...you look like hell.”

“That so,” says Shiro, one hand going self-consciously to the patch of pigmentless hair above his forehead.  “Well, I guess I am going white pretty early...”

“Where _were_ you?” Keith repeats, and the edge in his voice makes Shiro look at him properly.  Keith is wearing a familiar expression of subdued, aggressive worry. The kind of face he’d make in basic training when a squadmate sprained their ankle in the obstacle course. Shiro sighs.

“...I don’t know,” he says.  “I honestly don’t remember a thing.  Some alien planet, if the doctors are right, but they could only guess at what system it was even in.  How did you find me?”

Keith says nothing but rummages in his jacket pocket, eventually producing a newspaper clipping-- _Halloran Springs Daily_.  “You were an article.  They didn’t get your name but someone snapped a picture of you before they got you in an ambulance.  Guess ‘naked man wanders out of desert, collapses in bar’ was their best-selling headline in years.”

“So much for being a role model,”  Shiro sighs. Keith’s expression doesn’t budge an inch.  “Come on, kid, I’m giving you my best material here.”

“I _also_ saw your medical reports,” says Keith stubbornly.  “--And I’m not a kid.”

“My _medical_ \--how _\--_ ”

“Doesn’t matter how.  You’ve got-- _scars, everywhere_ , Shiro.  You’ve got a _metal arm!_ ”

Shiro almost sighs again, but swallows it instead.  “Look--I get why you’re curious. I’m curious too. But I told you, I don’t know--I honestly have no idea what happened to me.”

“...Right.”  Keith looks down at his feet, hands thrust truculently into his pockets.  “Sorry, I just...everyone thought you were dead, but I had...all these theories.  I wanted to be right so bad! And now you’re back and I’m glad, but we still have no idea what happened…”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well…”  Another pause.  “Anything you want to know?  I guess you’ve had a while to catch up, but a lot has happened since you...since two years ago.”

“Yeah,” says Shiro drily.  “I heard. Aliens. I gotta say...I still don’t believe half of it.”

“Okay, well...I guess you should know, that’s not actually...the weirdest thing that’s happened.”

“Alright.”  Shiro keeps his voice level, but apprehension is rising in his chest.   _How does it get weirder than that?_

Keith scratches the back of his neck, gaze dropping to his feet.  “Uh. What you should know first is...I dropped out of the Academy.”

“You _what_?”

Keith actually winces, and Shiro feels immediately guilty.  This isn’t boot camp, after all. He tries again, more softly.  “Uh…sorry. I’m just surprised. I really thought you were gonna stick with it.”

“So did I!” says Keith defensively.  “And then you vanished into space! And I started...building theories, like I said, and that...kind of turned into my new big obsession, y’know?”

Shiro does know.  It’s what made Keith such a good pilot.  Not just the ability to keep his concentration under pressure, but the way he spent all his free time practicing in the simulator, or reading up on spacecraft, or watching old training videos.  And for as long as Shiro knew him, that had been Keith’s obsession.

“Okay,” Shiro says again, frowning.  “So, that’s pretty weird, but I wouldn’t call it weirder than aliens.  Or did you find something new to get deep into now that I’m back?”

“Funny you should ask that,” says Keith.  “Let me tell you about Voltron.”

Shiro listens, and tries gamely to make sense of it.  According to Keith, Voltron is...some kind of space weapon.  Or five space weapons, or five suits of armor, or all of the above, intended for use by a quintet of valiant warriors.  Forged by the Alteans long, long ago, and entrusted to a new planet every few millennia. And now, apparently, it’s Earth’s turn.

“Even though we only just made contact with aliens,” Shiro muses as they wait for a walk signal to turn.

Keith wiggles a hand noncommittally.  “Well--I think that’s _why_ they made contact with us.  And the thing is…”

The thing is, Voltron is...psychic?  At least semi-conscious, and able to sort of...mind-meld with people.  Which lets the five Paladins sort of mind-meld with each other, and then defend the galaxy, apparently.  And it finds its Paladins by searching for the right minds on its new host planet, except…

“ _Except,”_ Keith says, as they cross the street towards a small, dimly-lit Thai restaurant, “it couldn’t _find_ all five of the people it wanted on Earth.  Which is crazy.”

“Out of six billion people?” says Shiro dubiously.  “Are you sure they’re not just messing with us?”

“That’s what I thought!” says Keith, spreading his arms.  “But did they listen?”

“Did who listen?”

“Anyone!”  Keith jams his hands in his pockets again with a huff.  “No. No, they didn’t. And now we’re just letting their...psychic alien AI thing sweep the planet for potential abductees every few months, like they think they’re gonna find something new…”

“Well, I’m new,” Shiro jokes, and throws off a casual salute.  “Reporting for duty!”

“Huh.”  Keith squints back at him, holding open the restaurant door.  “Guess so. But there’s no way it was just waiting for one guy to come back from space--I mean, how would it even know you existed anyway?”

Shiro laughs, really laughs, for the first time in months.  It feels good. “No,” he says, “I don’t think that’s it either.”

\--

 _Voltron has been seeking their last piece.  Black and Yellow are patient. Green and Blue are restless.  Red is furious. Voltron is searching. This_ is _the planet, after all.  This is the solar system, and humankind’s presence has not yet reached beyond it.  They will continue to scan it until the fifth is found. The fifth_ must _be here._

_Once more, Voltron casts their net.  Familiar minds spring to them first, unaware of being chosen; the first four._

_One, sprinting over golden sand, wet brown hair falling in his eyes.  Chasing younger siblings home for dinner. Laughing._

_Two, tightening the last bolts on a suspension system, hands greasy, headband soaking up sweat.  Satisfied at the final click of a mag-bolt. A job well done._

_Three, fingers clattering over keys at lightning speed.  Face uplit in a dark room, eyes roving over stacked lines of code.  Searching, curious._

_Four, belligerent and watchful, radiating distrust of everything--but especially Voltron itself.  Voltron is not overly worried; the red Paladin is always...slow to come around._

_And--there he is._

_Five.  At last, at_ last.   _A joyous ripple goes through their constituent parts, calling,_ Paladin.  Brother. Leader.

_They’ve found him._

_It’s time._

\--

Shiro is halfway through his pad thai when it happens.

A net of white light washes through the restaurant at waist-height, a glowing spiderweb that intersects, ghostlike, with solid objects.  Shiro yells and jumps up, but he’s the only one. The rest of the customers don’t even flinch; Keith looks more annoyed than anything.

He does, however, stand up after a moment to put an awkward hand on Shiro’s shoulder.  “It’s fine. This is just the...search thing they do. The aliens. Voltron. Whatever.”

“You should’ve told me there was going to be one today,” Shiro manages, staring around at the gently undulating lights.  Why is his heart pounding this hard?

Keith’s looking down at something.  Bemused, Shiro follows his gaze.

“Oh.”  Slowly, he lets his right hand drop from his side.  “...No gun. Right.”

“I don’t remember you being this trigger-happy,” says Keith as they take their seats again.  “...Come on, finish your stuff, this’ll be over in--”

“Uh, Keith--what’s it doing now?”

Over their table, the white net warps and twists and then splits, forming two perfectly round holes around Keith and Shiro.  Shiro blinks fast as a column of sourceless purple light shoots up around him--no, not purple. The white cuffs of his suit are glowing.

“Black light,” he murmurs, and looks up to see Keith sitting in a pillar of red, looking just as freaked out as he is.  The net shifts again, folding dizzyingly on itself before distorting into a sphere containing both of them.

The restaurant around them vanishes into blazing white light.

 _“We are Voltron,”_ says the light.   _“You are Voltron._

_“Black Paladin._

_“Red Paladin._

_“Defenders of the universe.”_

“Holy _shit_ ,” says Keith.

And then Keith is gone and Shiro is somewhere else.   _Something_ else.  Cool and dark, infinite and star-filled.  Fear drains away from him, leaving a galaxy.  Alien but somehow familiar, ancient and strong and wise.

 _“Hello,”_ says Black.

“...Hi,” says Shiro, breathless but utterly calm.

_“You are found.”_

“I...yeah.”

_“You will not be abandoned.”_

Shiro swallows hard.  “I don’t...understand.”

_“Altea will meet you.  We will be together. You are found.”_

“Thank you.”

He doesn’t know why he says it--or why, when the world snaps back into place around him, there’s a hot trickle running down his left cheek.

“....Shiro?”

“Uh--yeah.”  Shiro wipes his face self-consciously.  Shakes his head. “Yeah. I’m here. Did that really just happen?”

“I dunno,” says Keith, frowning.  “Did everything go all fiery? Like, inside you?  In your head?  And then a big psychic voice shouted at you?”

“Uh...less fiery, more...space-y.  No shouting. But yeah, basically.”

“God.”  Keith massages his forehead, his expression somewhere between excited and pissed.  “We’re gonna be _alien abductees_ .   _Defenders of the universe_ , what does that even mean?”

“Well,” says Shiro, “I guess I’m not going back to the Galaxy Garrison.”

Keith’s head snaps up, eyes wide.  “Like hell you’re not! We’re heading there first thing tomorrow!”

“Are we?  Oh--right.  Because...we need to report this development and--”

“Tell them to _eat it,_ ” Keith finishes for him, folding his arms.  “I _told_ them.  I _told_ them something had happened to you and they needed to find you!”

“I’m sure you did,” says Shiro weakly.  Around them, murmurs are building into a rustle of half-shouts and clicking camera phones.  “...We need to get out of here. Excuse me! Excuse me, can I get a box? Thank you.”

\--

Keith’s staying in the rattiest, smelliest little hotel Shiro’s ever seen.  He offers to let Shiro have the bed, but there’s also a sleeping bag rolled onto his hiking pack in the corner.  Shiro takes the sleeping bag.

At first, the other recruits at the Garrison tolerated Keith’s eccentricities.  But then he turned out to be better at flying than any of them, and didn’t show any real interest in social norms, and had a temper.  And that was really all it took. Shiro’s still sure he didn’t hear about the worst of it. Keith only ever reported missing belongings--his weighted blanket, his note-taking pens, his gloves (the only ones he would wear).  Most of the things turned up again. Most of them.

There are some things that make Keith very uncomfortable, and not having a proper place to sleep is one of them.  So Shiro appreciates the magnitude of the offer, but all the same, he takes the floor.

It’s actually not bad.  It’s...comfortable? Familiar?  In a way that tells him the bed would have felt too soft anyway.  But that doesn’t make any sense, because even as a soldier he didn’t spend that much time sleeping on hard floors.   _It doesn’t make any sense._ What happened to him?  Why is he so _different_?

Shiro clenches his metal hand and squeezes his eyes shut.  Time passes. One hour. Two hours. The moon peers accusingly through gauzy clouds, casting a faint square of gray light across the floor.

Shiro just lies there in his threadbare sleeping bag.  He should be sleeping. He doesn’t know why he can’t. It’s like something’s pressing on his chest, and it...burns.  It hurts. _Calm down,_ he thinks, but the feeling doesn’t go away.  It gets _worse_ , and he breathes in deep, trying to calm down, but the breath comes out in a rush and fear flares in his throat.   _Calm down.  You can do this.  You KNOW HOW TO DO THIS._

It’s three in the morning.  He wants to get up and--do something, punch something, _anything_ , but he’s frozen.  Numb and still, but marinating in sourceless, boundless terror.  Every thought seems to spark a fresh wave of it, making his heart thrum in his chest.  His hands and feet are tingling--even in his right hand, which he shouldn’t be able to feel anymore, there’s a phantom buzz of anxiety.

_Breathe.  Breathe. You know how to do this._

But he doesn’t anymore, and the fear burns him up.  Shiro clutches his head and presses his lips together and breathes through his nose-- _inhale.  Exhale. Inhale.  Exhale. I’m going to die this is going to kill me INHALE, EXHALE WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME_

If Keith is awake, he acts like he doesn’t hear anything, and Shiro’s grateful.  He brings both shaking arms up to cover his face and presses a shirtsleeve to his damp eyes.

Around two in the morning, it finally abates.  Shiro slips uneasily into fitful sleep and nightmares he can’t remember.


	2. waiting for my spaceship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The paladins boldly go where a few people have gone before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapters! short short short, so short.

“You look terrible,” says Keith as a lady grumpily checks them out of the hotel.

Shiro groans.  “You’ve got to stop telling me that.”

“Uh.  Okay. Well, the Galaxy Garrison called earlier.  I don’t know how they got my number, but they want us to report in so we can meet up with the aliens and...the other…”

“Paladins,” Shiro finishes for him.  Suddenly, he doesn’t feel so hungry, which isn’t actually such a bad thing; the hotel’s breakfast bar consists of day-old danishes and pulpy orange juice.

“Right, yeah.”  Keith huffs, taking his card back from the desk lady and turning to the door.  “ _Paladins_.  They gathered ‘em up as fast as they could so the aliens could come and have a look, I guess.  We need to stay on our guard, Shiro.”

Shiro hasn’t felt _off_ his guard since he woke up in the desert, but doesn’t say so.  Instead, he pitches his danish discreetly into a garbage can and straightens his slightly-too-tight dress shirt.

“I’ll go wherever they want me to as long as they get me some new clothes,” he says, and then, catching a whiff of one armpit, “...and a shower.”

\--

The Galaxy Garrison provides both, though only after three whole hours of questions, most of which Shiro can’t answer to save his life.  But eventually he’s clean and dressed--black T-shirt, fatigue pants, and boots. The difference is miraculous. Military wear is comforting in its familiarity, even without a holster at his hip.

Of course they wouldn’t give him a gun, Shiro tells himself as he follows Keith towards the hangar.  He’s been missing for two years and hell, he’s not even sure he could pass his exam at this point.

Shiro had half-hoped this place would look the same as it ever did, but--everything changes.  Even decades-old hangars need fresh coats of paint and new aircrafts.

Shiro ducks under the wing of one, frowning at a model he doesn’t recognize, and his eye catches on three figures standing by the wall across the room.  They look to be Keith’s age, maybe--barely college graduates, if that. Shiro isn’t too much older than that, but it still only makes him feel more alienated.  As if the scars and hair and metal arm weren’t enough.

One of them looks up as Keith and Shiro approach and gives them both a sunny smile.  “Hey! Hi, uh, I’m Hunk Garrett. What’s up?”

“Wish we knew,” Shiro quips, smiling back.  He takes the guy in as they shake hands; Hunk is tall, broad, and dark-skinned, with his hair pulled back in a tight bun.  The corner of a dark, blocky tattoo is just visible on his neck, peeking out from under his faded orange T-shirt.

Hunk gestures to one of the others.  “And this is…”

“Lance McClain,” says the guy.  Shiro turns to see a pointy brown face and sharp blue eyes, meeting his gaze head-on.  Fashion isn’t exactly Shiro’s forte, but Lance looks stylishly dressed. And a little bit like he’s posing, maybe.  “Pleased to meet you, Mister…?”

“Takashi Shiroga--”

“Oh, cut the crap!”

Shiro turns to Keith, who’s been silent this whole time.  He’s looking at Lance with open, genuine dislike. Lance makes a faint gagging noise.

“--Oh my _god_ , _Keith?!_  What are you doing here?  With Takashi Shirogane?!”

“See?” snaps Keith, glaring at Shiro.  “He knows your name, he was just--”

“Being polite,” Lance cuts in.  “Introductions are polite, Keith!  That’s right, I’m better than you at manners _and_ piloting--”

“If they hadn’t put you in my squad to learn from me, I wouldn’t even know your name.”  Keith pauses, apparently thinking of something as Lance squawks indignantly. “...And, uh.  How are you. I am good. Did you enjoy all the free time after you got expelled. See, manners.”

“I wasn’t _expelled!”_

“Al _right_ ,” says Shiro loudly, stepping between them.  “I think if we’re going to be on a spaceship together for a while, we should...conserve our energy for lift-off, huh?  Now, I know there are five of us here, so…”

He trails off as his eyes find the fifth.

It’s Katie Holt.

It has to be, because it’s not Matt but _god_ does she look like her brother.  Like Matt with an undercut--she’s even wearing glasses that look exactly like his.  Though to be fair, Matt wouldn’t have been caught dead in khaki shorts and green flannel.  There’s a _tick-tack_ of keys from her ancient solid-screen laptop.  She’s not looking at the screen, though; her eyes are fixed bemusedly on the rest of the group.  They sharpen as Shiro approaches her, though. Watchful. Almost angry.

Shiro opens his mouth to say something, just as she stops typing and extends a hand to shake.

“Pidge Gunderson.  They-them.”

And Shiro...doesn’t say anything, because how could he, with everyone here?  It’s pretty clear that she--they--are deliberately using a new surname. And Shiro can hardly blame them--for that, or for the flash of anger.  The Holt family scandal was widespread and some of the repercussions were...not gentle.

They’re holding out a hand for him to shake.  Shiro takes it a moment late, suddenly over-conscious of his prosthetic arm.  But if Pidge notices, they don’t say anything.

“So...defenders of the universe, huh,” says Hunk behind him.  “Space adventures. Uh...fighting aliens, and stuff. Why _us_?”

“That’s what you’re going to find out,” says a deep voice.  The words echo, oddly ominous in the open, empty space. Their source appears a moment later: a large white man with a thin mustache and absolutely no trace of good humor on his face.  Shiro has to resist the urge to stand at attention.

“Commander Steele,” he says evenly.  “What’s the plan?”

“Well.”  Steele clears his throat, looking around at all of them.  “So far the aliens have proven...benevolent. And they seem to want to give us control of a powerful weapon.”

“Feeling pretty good about that part, huh?” snipes Pidge with a hard grin.  Hunk winces, glancing nervously between them and Steele, but the commander continues as though nothing happened.

“So, we at the Galaxy Garrsion have decided almost unanimously...that it’s in the best interests of Planet Earth to go along with the Alteans for now.”

“You mean for _us_ to go along with them,” Keith points out.  Steele narrows his eyes, but doesn’t disagree.

“So...where are they?” Lance prompts after a moment.  “Big Blue And Psychic promised me aliens, and I’m not seein’ any here!”

“That’s because you won’t be meeting them here,” says Commander Steele crisply, and extends a finger to the ceiling.  “You’re meeting them _up there_.”

“In the sky?” says Lance after a moment.

“In _space_ ,” says Pidge, their eyes flashing with fierce enthusiasm.  “About time. I mean, okay, kinda rude to make us come to them, but... _space!_ ”

Hunk swallows hard.  “Space?”

“Space,” says Lance, in awe.

“Figures,” says Keith, glaring at Steele.  Steele completely ignores him and starts in on the craft they’ll be taking--specs and tech and ETA--but Shiro’s only half-listening.

Space.  The last time Shiro was on an interstellar flight--

He swallows the thought and thinks of the voice in his head saying _you will not be abandoned._  “I’m sure they’ve got their reasons,” he says.  “Everyone just stick together and stay calm, and we’ll be fine.”

\--

Space suits.  Just when Shiro was settling into his fatigues again, he’s back in one of these.

They’ve gotten sleeker, more streamlined.  Even the breathing apparatus lighter and more efficient--and it’s only been _two years_.  Everything just kept moving, without him.

Shiro tells himself to stop obsessing over every little change.  He can’t just spiral every time this happens…

But by the time he pulls himself out of the thoughts, they’re already halfway through takeoff orientation.  They won’t even have a manual pilot, although apparently Keith’s license has been reinstated in case of emergency (much to Lance’s dislike).  Some Garrison tech officer will be controlling the shuttle remotely from their office. Shiro does not find this comforting.

Everyone has to sign a form.   _Non-disclosure, I joined this mission of my own free will,_ et cetera.  Shiro hesitates a moment before putting his name down.  But the rest of them have already done it--even Hunk, who looks more and more apprehensive with every tick of the countdown.  And Shiro will _not_ be leaving these guys on their own, in space, with aliens.  Especially not with Lance and Keith glaring at each other every time the other one opens his mouth.

Especially not with the youngest Holt on board.

His prosthetic hand writes just as well as his old one, something Earth technology has yet to achieve.  He should be glad of that, probably. Shiro still feels as though he’s watching it move on its own, smoothly scrawling _Takashi Shirogane_ next to the X.

“Alright,” says Steele, scooping the clipboard out of his hands and surveying the signatures.  “Buckle up, ladies.”

“Ah, yes, all us ladies,” snipes Pidge from the rearmost passenger seat, “the worst thing to be.”

Steele shoots them one last hard look and then marches out, the hatch hissing shut behind him.

“I don’t think that’s what he meant,” says Lance after a moment, leaning back to look at Pidge.

“Trust me, it was.”

“But--”

“ _Guys_ , can we not have a fight right now?” Hunk pleads, pressed tightly back against his seat with both hands clenched around his harness.

Keith gives him a blankly curious look.  “...We haven’t even taken off yet.”

 _“T-minus twenty seconds,”_ says a nasal male voice through the announcement speakers.

“Okay, never mind.”

“Everyone just lean back and relax,” says Shiro, even though his nerves are starting to scream.   _Push it down, wait it out.  It’s going to be fine._

The hangar opens above them.   _“Ten.  Nine. Eight…”_

The launch is a blur; light and pressure, and the sky growing ever closer as Shiro’s heart thrums in his chest.   _Almost there.  Almost there._ But then they’ll be in space, and he hasn’t been there since--

\--

 _“Ze’akora!!  Lai derocxa nasak ne,_ Kasolra _.”_

\--

Shiro wakes up panting, lungs heaving out breath after frantic breath.  He’s sweating--can’t breathe-- _don’t make me I can’t not again_

“Whoa, dude!”  A face swims into view, momentarily unfamiliar.  Shiro blinks, brings it into focus. Lance. Okay.  Lance, yes, because...he’s on the ship…

“You blacked out,” says Lance, looking severely freaked out.

“I think he knows that!” snaps another voice.  Keith, peering over Lance’s shoulder through the visor of his helmet.  “Shiro, you okay?”

“I guess,” Shiro manages, sitting up straighter.  His eyes skate off of the windows, away from the vast blackness outside; the sliver of earth visible to the right.   _Stay calm.  Stay calm. It’s not that bad._ “...Do we have an ETA?”

“They told us back at the base.”  That’s Pidge’s voice, distant and bemused.  Shiro sighs and tries to remember--it must have been when Steele was talking about the ship, but...  Nothing doing.

“About five minutes,” says Keith, and glances out the window.  “Apparently they’re not that far away.”

“I remembered that too,” says Lance, glaring.

“Okay,” says Shiro, keen to step in before another fight can kick off.  “Alright, I’m okay, I promise...why don’t you guys sit back down?”

Keith and Lance look at each other.

“I mean it,” says Shiro, pushing himself all the way up and giving them the firmest look he can manage.  “Just sit down, I’ll be fine.”

They do, finally, taking measured steps away from Shiro with eyes fixed suspiciously on each other.  For about ten seconds, Shiro considers letting the silence drag out but he’s still coming down off of... _whatever that was._ It doesn’t take long for the sound of his heartbeat to become overwhelming.

He doesn’t want to feel that burning start up in his chest again.  He doesn’t want that fear. So Shiro scoots over in his seat, leans forward to look at them all, and tries a smile.  “So...what were you guys all doing when you got its message?”

“I was eating dinner,” Lance volunteers cheerfully.  “Hey, this is pretty cool, huh? Outer _space!_ ”

“I was working on a hoverbike,” says Hunk, who’s looking sweaty and ashen.  “And no, it’s not _cool_.  I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Pidge gives him a curious look, adjusting their glasses.  “Didn’t you get zero-G training in middle school? I thought it was standard in America.”

“Okay, well, _first_ , I went through middle school in Samoa, and second, I did, and it sucked, and it still sucks and I’m definitely gonna hurl someone give me a bag!”

Keith pulls a plastic sack from under his seat and hands it wordlessly to Hunk, who proceeds to make good on his promise.  The ice is effectively broken.

The Altean ship is stationary, just outside of orbit.  Even if Shiro hadn’t known, he would have recognized it as Altean.  It has the same sleek, white armor as the aliens themselves. The five prospective paladins have been staring at it for a minute or two before comms finally crackle on and their long-distance pilot says, _“Elijah here, guys.  Approaching the alien craft.  You’re within their audio range--well, I guess everything is, seems like?  I dunno, maybe they’ll just hit you up psychically?”_

“Elijah,” says Shiro, “focus up.”

 _“Uh--yeah, sure.  Oh man, Takashi Shirogane!  Man, you are a_ legen--”

“Focus up,” Shiro repeats patiently, face heating a little.   _Legend._ What does that even mean?  What is he supposed to have done that’s so legendary?

_“Okay, right.  So, you’ll get close and they’ll tell you what to do, is basically the impression we got.  I still think we should’ve let you guys speak to ‘em directly but you know the top brass…”_

“Yeah,” says Keith.

“Tell us about it,” calls Pidge from the back.

“ _Guys_ ,” says Hunk.  “Those’re our bosses!  K...kinda.”

Lance laughs, but there’s a nervy edge to it.  “Not anymore! Our bosses are _aliens_ now, am I right?”

 _“Oh, not at all,”_ says a voice from the comms, and it’s definitely not Elijah the long-distance pilot.  It’s older, and accented, and cheerfully officious. The occupants of the Earth craft freeze, staring up at the speaker.

“...What,” says Keith.

_“We’re just here to help you understand Voltron and the responsibilities that come with it!”_

Ahead of them, a hatch on the belly of the white ship slides open, shining bright blue light into space.

_“Come on in!”_

Well.  Point of no return.  Shiro spares the manual controls a moment’s glance, but...no.  They’re committed. And a moment later, the blue light swallows them.

And they’re inside.

Pidge is the one who opens the hatch, pulling gadgets out of their bag and holding it out to the space beyond.

“...Breathable,” the say after a moment, satisfied.  “Makes sense, I guess...the Alteans could breathe on Earth.  Although there’s a possibility their shapeshifting abilities let them adapt to new environments, so maybe they’re just being thoughtful?  Alright, let’s go!”

No one moves.  They’re all still just staring at the corridor beyond the hatch, taking in the gently curved walls, the triangular blue lights, the texture of the floor.  Alien. Unknown.

“We’re...really doing this, huh?” says Lance after a moment.

Keith gives him a look.  “Are you scared?”

“What?  No!”

“Alright then,” says Pidge, clapping Lance on the back.  “You first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: at last, aliens


	3. I don't belong in these parts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to meet some aliens. And get in a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have any idea what I'm doing with any of this characterization. But hey, 4k words?! Incredible.  
> (I just edited a 21k chapter for a fic on main so it's nice to work on something so low-key tbh.)

This is the first alien Shiro has seen face-to-face and she is beautiful.

“I am Princess Allura of Altea,” she says. Somewhere behind him, Shiro hears Lance sigh audibly. And if he’s honest, he doesn’t blame the guy. She’s tall, regal, white-haired and copper-skinned, wearing a flowing blue gown and platinum circlet. Shiro watched The Fellowship of the Ring once; now he knows how the fellowship felt when they saw Galadriel for the first time.

He clears his throat after what feels like an uncomfortably long moment. “Uh. Your Majesty. My name is Takashi Shirogane--or Shiro. If you like. And this is my team. The...Paladins of Voltron.”

He’s not standing at attention, per se, but he manages a passable left turn and extends an arm to the rest of the humans. They all look just about as poleaxed as he feels. Hunk essays a little wave.

“Wonderful!” she says, smiling. “Just excellent, really. _So_ good to have you here, welcome aboard! Now, first things first--I’m sure you’re wondering why I seem to be speaking your language…”

“Some kind of psychic network,” says Pidge immediately. “That’s how the Voltron thing works, right? And you’re supposed to have had that for, what, millions of years? So it should just be everyday tech for you by now. I’d love to see whatever powers it, though…”

“Same,” says Hunk.

“Er.” Allura pauses, looking somewhat taken aback. “Yes. Rather. You are...forgive me, _better-informed_ than I expected?”

Pidge huffs. “Yeah, well, you guys talked to the army, didn’t you? The _US_ army.”

“That...yes, I think so?”

“So you’re not that well-informed either,” Keith observes conversationally.

Shiro gives him a look. “Keith.”

“What? She said it about us.”

“It’s quite alright,” says Allura, who seems to have regained her composure. “I did not mean to condescend.”

“No no no, Your Majesty!” Lance slides past Shiro to perform a flourishy little bow. “You can tell us anything you want!”

“Like why you have a British accent,” Hunk interjects.

“Perceived accents present via complex connections within the Translation Network.” Allura starts to move down the hall, away from their craft, with an inviting gesture. Shiro’s about to ask for a moment to consult with his team, but Lance is already trailing after her. Alright, then.

“For instance,” Allura continues, “it factors in approximately relative cultural parallels, but personal impressions also play a role. And sometimes there are little quirks of the brain that cause completely incongruous results--for instance!” She nods at Lance, who’s still flanking her closely. “To me, you sound much like a native of Beval Province on Altea!”

“I do?” Lance manages after a moment, still sounding kind of dazed. “But...I have the same accent as these guys…”

“That’s irrelevant!” Allura ushers them all inside what looks like a futuristic elevator. “Something about your manner of speech and behavior, combined with your own perception of yourself, brings you across as _very_ Bevalian.”

“Sounds complicated,” says Shiro politely, in the pause that follows. Lance seems to be trying to figure out whether _very Bevalian_ is good or bad. Pidge is wide-eyed and hyper-focused on Allura, like a cat who just found a new toy, while Hunk takes notes on the little arm tablet attached to every Galaxy Garrison spacesuit.

“Where are we going?” says Keith, who’s clearly been following his own distinct train of thought. “I’m not just gonna follow you anywhere.”

Lance shoots him a warning glare, but Allura seems unfazed by the lack of trust. “To the command console,” she says, nodding to a thin strip of glass next to the door. There’s a soft blue light slowly filling it, like mercury in a thermometer.

“All the way on the top floor, huh?” murmurs Hunk, peering at it. “...Neat.”

When the door slides open, the first thing Shiro sees is a bushy ginger mustache.

“Welcome, paladins of Voltron!” says the owner of the mustache, and Shiro immediately recognizes the voice from the broadcast that accessed their ship’s comms earlier. “I am Royal Advisor Coran Hieronymous Wimbledon Smythe, but you may simply call me Coran!”

“Coran was...kind enough to come along with me. Despite the fact that my father is currently entangled in political drama that might...require a Royal Advisor,” says Allura. Her tone is neutral, but she still manages to broadcast a faint sense of resentment.

“Ideally, you would have a full entourage, Princess!” Coran shoots back, with the rhythmic cadence of repetition. Allura sighs, glancing back at the Paladins.

“...Yes. Well. You know my thoughts on...that.”

“I do, but with all due respect, Princess--”

“Coran!”

“Yes, Princess?”

“If we are going to have this conversation again, could we perhaps...postpone it? Until we are…”

“Out of our earshot?” says Keith, folding his arms. “What’s so secret that you don’t wanna talk about it in front of us?”

Allura colors, but remains impressively stoic. “...Personal issues.”

 _“I think she just wants to do stuff her way and they’re kinda having a fight,”_ murmurs Hunk, leaning down next to Keith’s ear. Shiro winces--Hunk seems like a great guy, but volume control is apparently not one of his strongpoints.

“Well!” says Coran loudly, cutting over whatever Keith was going to say next, “why don’t I tell you all about where we’re off to next!”

Pidge springs eagerly forward, the first to leave the dais by the elevator. “Yes _please_.”

“That’s the spirit! Well, first of all, you’ll be attending the Intergalactic Convocation over in the Shnura Galaxy--that’s neutral ground, of course--and we’ll train you in the use of Voltron! Before long you’ll be asked to present your skills in combat--yes?”

Lance lowers his hand, looking lost. Shiro can relate. “Uh--what’s the...Galaxic...Conver…”

“The Intergalactic Convocation! Typically called to meet every phoeb or so, but we do break the pattern when it comes to...er...Voltron matters. Every major planet of Free Sentient Space sends representatives from their leading countries, and we discuss whatever concerns have arisen since the previous Convocation.” Coran clasps his hands at his chest, staring beatifically into space. “Ah, democracy!”

“Yeah, it’s great,” says Lance. “But--we’ve gotta go to another _galaxy_ for it? What about...Earth? I mean, I’m not a genius but I know that even if you’re traveling at lightspeed, some funky shit happens to time, and--”

“Oh, _lightspeed_.” Coran waves a dismissive hand, as though Lance had suggested they drive a diesel truck to the Shnura Galaxy. “Instantaneous portal travel is the only way to go these days! Don’t worry, your planet will catch up...eventually. Now, who’d like a tour of the Castle of Lions?”

The Paladins follow him further into the open, staring around at the alien tech and star-filled windows. Shiro had intended to hang back, but finds himself standing next to Allura, who’s apparently too lost in thought to notice him. And muttering to herself.

_“...told him I could handle this on my own but did he listen…”_

Shiro clears his throat gently.

“Oh-- _quiznak_ \--” She cuts herself off abruptly, cheeks flushing again in that surprisingly human way. “Erm--I don’t suppose you could pretend you didn’t hear that…”

“Hear what?” says Shiro, eyebrows raised. “ _Quiz snack?_ ”

She laughs, half self-conscious, half amused. “Oh dear. Not that you should repeat it, but your pronunciation is _atrocious_. I suppose Earth must not have an equivalent.”

“How often does that happen?”

Allura waves airily. “Oh, you know...on occasion. Some languages are more compatible than others. Fortunately for you, we’ve had superb results with Altean and your English so far. I suppose the...Q-word is just…” She trails off, frowning. “ _Q-word...I’m not twelve…_ ”

“I don’t mind,” Shiro assures her, grinning. “I don’t know what it means anyway.”

“Nor should you!” Allura says, with dignity. “But should you encounter...similar issues in the future, the polite response is, er, _I don’t have that word_.”

“I don’t have that word,” Shiro repeats obediently, trying it out. Allura beams at him.

“Princess!”

It’s Coran, standing officiously next to a central dais with the attitude of a butler holding the door. Allura nods, pats Shiro on the shoulder, and makes her way to the middle of the room.

“Excuse me, Paladins? We’re about to make the jump to Convocation Space.” A fan of screens opens in front of her, and she whisks one towards each of the humans. “Here! An encyclopedia of the galactic representatives appearing at the convocation. But please--come to me before addressing any of them directly...it can be, er...difficult for developing planets to keep up with intergalactic diplomacy.

“The Galra especially are...somewhat tetchy, and they’ve brought their prince to conduct military exercises, which--” She pauses, looking oddly bashful again. “...Well, that’s a topic for later. Please take time to review these before your initial introductions to the council. I’m going to open a portal now. Passing through it may be alarming the first time, but I promise the process is short and only causes vomiting _occasionally_ \--”

“But who knows!” Coran chimes in. “We’ve never taken a _human_ through with us! You could _all_ vomit!”

“Please stop saying vomit,” says Hunk, and then gasps softly as a swirling blue hole slices open the sky ahead.

“ _Wow_.” Lance stares up at the portal with the awe of a kid seeing their first rainbow. “Now that’s what I call sci-fi.”

“Hm! I don’t have that word,” says Coran.

“It means--”

“It means _really cool_ ,” Pidge interjects hurriedly, flashing a grin at Lance. He blinks for a second and then, to Shiro’s exasperation, nods seriously.

“Uh--yeah, yep. That _is_ what sci-fi means.”

Coran squints at the two of them, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. “Is that so? Fascinating!”

“Guys…” says Shiro, trying to subtly inject a note of warning into his voice. Lance looks slightly chagrined. Pidge doesn’t even acknowledge him.

Well, that’s--

That’s only to be expected.

“How long does this take?” asks Hunk, looking a little ashen and sweaty as the portal slides closer.

Allura laughs and twists her hands confidently above the control column. “Don’t worry--”

\-- _a blue flash and a feeling of being stretched--_

“--we’re already here!”

\--

Pidge has a lot to say about the alien space station. Shiro gets about one in every five words, and is once again painfully reminded of Matt. He distracts himself by looking around, taking in the high, sweeping ceilings and...the crowds.

Hunk joins in with the chatter when Pidge starts talking aliens, and even Keith contributes a word or two. There are just so many different creatures--peoples?-- _aliens_. More than any human could ever have expected to see in their lifetime. Which is...exciting, of course. Or it should be. Shiro’s trying to be excited. And maybe he is, on some level, but it’s hard to distinguish between that feeling and the by-now familiar tremble of fear in his chest.

It’s strange to look over at Lance and see those feelings reflected on his face.

“...Hey,” says Shiro. Lance doesn’t even seem to hear him at first, but then he swallows, eyes re-focusing, and glances at Shiro.

“Uh. Hey.”

“Guess we’re not in Kansas anymore, huh?” Shiro tries for an encouraging smile, and gets a hoarse, distracted chuckle in return.

“Haha. Yeah...guess not.” Lance looks around again, eyes wide and blank, and seems to decide he’d rather focus on a human face right now. “...So, does that make you Dorothy, or…?”

“I think I’d be the tin man,” says Shiro, laughing.

“Pff--what? Why?”

“Uh--” Shiro glances down at his right arm, then sharply up again, hoping Lance didn’t notice. “Just...feeling kinda...frozen right now.”

“Tell me about it,” mutters Lance. “Hunk, you can be the cowardly lion.”

“The Yellow Lion is not cowardly!” calls Coran from the back of the party.

“And Keith--”

“I know what you’re going to say, and _no_.”

“Well, there’s only one left, unless you wanna be Toto!”

“I’ll be Toto,” Pidge offers. “I’m the smallest.”

“I am...lost,” says Allura, who’s been staring at them over her shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it,” says Pidge, waving a hand. “Hey, though, would you mind being our tour guide? I want to know literally _everything_ about this place.”

Allura brightens. “Oh! Well, I could be persuaded...yes, let’s see… You should remember this from the informational files I gave you, but there are several major players represented here. For instance, you’ll see plenty of Galra.” She nods to two massively tall, purple-skinned aliens.

Pidge eyes them keenly as they pass. “The, uh, _tetchy_ ones, huh?”

“Er. Yes. And there will be plenty of Alteans, of course, since Voltron was originally ours…ooh, and Arus is sending representatives this year for the first time!”

This continues for quite a while, and by the time they’re out of the crowds Shiro’s head is spinning. He certainly has a better handle on the different alien races, but whether he’ll remember it all in the morning remains to be seen.

By a series of elevators and keycode-protected doors, they eventually wind up on a slender bridge high above the main concourse. The view is beautiful, but dizzying. Shiro keeps his eyes straight ahead while the rest chatter, trying not to think about the drop.

Maybe that’s why he sees them first.

They’re Alteans, he thinks, from the marks on their faces. Something about the looks on their faces, the way they’re walking, makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Allura is still talking, saying something about doctors and inspections.

And then they get within a few feet of Allura, and one of them whips out a knife, and _that_ gets everyone’s attention.

“We are agents of Imperial Altea!”

Allura’s eyes narrow. “Oh dear.”

“That’s right!” says the guy, relief tingeing his tone. He’s young. Too young to be pulling shit like this. “Princess Allura, we have demands for the Crown concerning the need to extend the Altean colonies. Now come with me if you don’t want--”

“Not _oh dear whatever shall I do_ ,” Allura cuts in patiently, and pulls a ribbon at her waist. Her skirt ripples with light and... _changes_ , shortens into a sensible waistcoat over white pants and boots. “I meant, _oh dear. You lot again._ ”

“Wh,” says the guy, and then Allura’s hand closes on his wrist like a striking snake. Shiro hardly saw her move, doesn’t even have time to open his mouth before Allura sweeps the guy’s feet. A thud and a grunt, and she has him in a lock. It’s poetry.

But the other five agents are closing in. They don’t look confident, but they all have knives, and scared plus knives has never worked out well in Shiro’s experience.

“Guys,” he says, not looking back at the other Paladins. “Any of you have combat experience?”

“Just Garrison training,” says Keith, stepping up beside him.

Lance appears on his other side a moment later, cracking his knuckles. “Same.”

“Uh, I worked as a bouncer last Summer,” says Hunk. “Pidge, you wanna stay--”

“I know three martial arts.”  
“Okay.”

“Alright,” says Shiro. “I’ll take the big one.”

The Altean in question flashes him a look, angry and scared (again, never a good sign), and for a single moment Shiro thinks it’s about to go down.

And then the guy breaks away from the group and just _runs_ for it, and a second later so do the rest of them. Shiro’s first instinct is to give chase, but Allura’s voice snaps out like a gunshot and freezes him in place.

“Wait!!”

“Th--they’re gonna get away--”

“I assume Coran has already contacted security.”

“That I have, Princess! They should be heading off those Imperial morons at the end of the bridge!”

“Wonderful,” says Allura, and extends a hand over her shoulder. “Stunner, please.”

“Wait! Wait!” The man under her squirms and grunts, his wrist white under her fist. “You don’t need to--”

“You threatened me with a knife.” Allura takes a sleek black device from Coran and positions it delicately over the back of the man’s neck. “And in fairness, well done for thinking of a weapon that would pass safely through the sensors, but...don’t be ridiculous.”

There’s a soft, electric _thump_ and the agent goes still.

“Dude,” says Lance after a moment. “ _Cold_.”

\--

“It’s so weird that I can read this,” says Pidge. “I mean, look-- _Medical Tech Center_. Just looks like English to me. What language is this even in?”

Allura hums thoughtfully. “You know, I’m not sure. But if you checked into the translation network office, I’m sure they’d be able to tell you.”

“You know something weird?” mutters Lance, squinting up at the sign. “I can’t tell if I’m seeing this in English or Spanish. It’s not a problem when people are talking, but…”

Pidge snorts. “Maybe it will be now that you’re thinking about it.”

“...Why would you do that to me?”

Allura clears her throat, reaching for a little screen next to the door. “Well, you can...continue to discuss this inside! As I was saying, it’ll just be a basic medical inspection, and you’ll be supplied with the personal consoles carried by all Convocation guests.”

Hunk, who’s looked a little shaken since the fight on the bridge, brightens up a little. “Ooh, personal consoles? I’m in!”

“Yeah, I definitely want one of those,” says Pidge. “Guys?”

“Uh, sure!” Lance glances at Keith. “... _I’m_ not scared.”

“Sounds like something a scared person would say,” Keith shoots back. “Shiro, you coming?”

Shiro opens his mouth. Shuts it again. He wants to say yes, but he’s thinking about doctors, and hospital rooms, and test after test after test...

“I...don’t think so,” he says, at last. Keith frowns, and Pidge flashes him a look, but this isn’t the time to open that particular can of worms. Shiro keeps his gaze fixed firmly on Allura.

“Oh, well,” she says after a moment, “it is...unconventional, but of course we would not force you to do anything you don’t want to do. I’ll have the necessary tech sent to you later.”

“Thank you. Uh, Princess.”

“Most welcome,” she says, with a star-bright smile. Shiro watches her motion the rest of the paladins through the door, and only relaxes when it closes again on their retreating backs. Part of him can’t help wondering whether this is the wrong choice. For all he knows, this could be the part where the aliens reveal their secret, horrifying intentions. Perhaps his new friends will come back with mind control implants, or not at all…

But at this point, those worries are small and fleeting; more than anything, he trusts Allura. And it’s _not_ because she’s strong and gorgeous and an alien princess. Shiro is a soldier. He’s not that easily swayed.

...She’s also just really nice.

Shiro sighs hard and leans against the wall to wait.

\--

Prince Lotor is bored.

By all rights, he should be angry; it’s been a trying few movements. Anything to do with Altea, and his father goes into a sulky rage, and what with all this fuss over Voltron… Emperor Zarkon has been _insufferable_.

But Lotor slipped away as soon as he saw an opening, and he’s had a good few vargas to explore the station. And now he’s bored. Allura was supposed to arrive soon, but he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of her--just _her_ father, who is cloyingly friendly and altogether too eager to make conversation.

Lotor hasn’t had a decent argument in a bloody decaphoeb.

And then a security alarm goes off in the upper levels, and _yes_ , a _fight_.

But it’s over by the time he gets there, more’s the pity. And Lotor can’t even get the guards to tell him what the problem was.

He keeps wandering until he sees the stranger.

It’s a human, he thinks. Not that Lotor’s ever met one in person, but he read the dossier when Earth was chosen as Voltron’s next host planet. Almost Altean, but with those peculiar rounded ears. And if there are humans here, that means Allura must be around as well.

Typically, Lotor would ignore a newcomer in favor of seeking her out. But he might have to make an exception this time, for the--yes, the Black Paladin, he’s almost 100% sure. Lotor has profiled every set of paladins for the past thousand decaphoebs, and there are patterns. One that even Emperor Zarkon fell into, into his youth. The Black Paladin has...a _look._ Serious. Heroic. Knightly.

At a glance, the human is all this and more. Tall, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted. Cheekbones you could cut yourself on. It’s possible that human standards of beauty are different and no one on Terra has noticed how disgustingly gorgeous he is, but somehow Lotor doubts it. Some things must be universal.

One of them, of course, is the art of the polite introduction.

\--

“How do you do,” says someone.

“Alright,” says Shiro automatically, looking up. And up. And up a little further. _Aliens,_ he thinks.

“So you’re the new black paladin.”

“That’s me,” says Shiro neutrally. He thought he was getting good at identifying alien races, but this one is a stumper. He could easily be Galra, with that velvety purple skin, but Shiro hasn’t seen a mane of white hair like that on any of the Galra he’s passed today.

“Well,” says the guy, while Shiro’s still trying to figure it out, “I suppose they could’ve chosen worse. You clearly have physical power--and stamina, I would guess. Though your mental acumen remains to be proven.” He leans in, cocking his head curiously and giving Shiro an unnecessarily close view of his face. The odd, not-quite-human contours of his facial structure, the slightly membranous look to his ears, those unnerving yellow sclera.

“...You’re breathing my air,” says Shiro after a moment.

“What an intimate turn of phrase.” The guy leans in a fraction closer, flashing pointed white teeth in a shard of a smile. “We certainly don’t have that one where I come from.”

“It means you’re way too close,” says Shiro, tilting his head a little to meet those yellow eyes head on. _Damn_ , this alien is tall. Shiro can’t tell if he’s being threatened or flirted with, but either way he doesn’t love it.

“...Of course.” The alien withdraws with an affected cough, folding his arms behind his back. “I did not intend to unnerve you.”

 _Didn’t you?_ thinks Shiro, but doesn’t say it. Diplomacy. “...That’s fine.”

The guy opens his mouth to say something else, but his eyes twitch to something behind Shiro-- _someone there_ \--and Shiro whips around without thinking about it, sinking into a fighting stance. Heart pounding. Eyes sharp.

It takes him a moment to realize who he’s seeing, and another to shake off the surge of sudden, strange adrenaline. He can feel his face flushing as he straightens, trying to look as though he wasn’t just in fight-or-flight mode. On balance, he would’ve expected his visitor to make fun of him for that little stunt, but the purple alien is much more interested in--

“Princess Allura! It’s been so long!”

“Perhaps not long enough,” says Allura, taking Shiro’s elbow to draw him down a little. “Mister Shirogane--”

“Shiro, please.”

She half-smiles. The guy frowns and cocks his head to the side, but doesn’t interrupt as Allura continues. “...Shiro. May I introduce Prince Lotor of Daibazaal.”

“Charmed,” Lotor says, before Shiro has a chance to respond, or even wrap his head around the sudden revelation. _Prince of Daibazaal. This_ is the Galra prince? Shiro expected him to look more...Galran.

That’s the kind of thing Lance would say if he were here, though, so he keeps his mouth shut and makes a mental note to have a conversation with the rest of the team. Most of them haven’t been trained in diplomacy.

“We’ve known each other all our lives,” says Allura. “...For better or worse.”

“We’ve spent most of that time fighting,” Lotor adds, with a fanged grin.

“Worse, then,” says Allura.

“Really? I would have said better.”

“Which is why it is worse. Shiro, a word?”

She leads him down the hallway a ways. Shiro doesn’t look back, but he gets the distinct feeling Lotor is watching them all the way.

“Alright.” Allura clears her throat as they come to a stop. “I won’t ask why you wouldn’t visit Medical, but after hearing that you passed out on the journey here…”

Shit. “I’m fine.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “...I’m certain. I simply wanted to catch you before you all turned in... It can all be a little overwhelming! And there _are_ medical options for nausea and nerves--nothing you’d need an appointment for...”

“I’ll be fine,” says Shiro, smiling.

\--

_Breathe in, breathe out, I’m dying I have to be dying, just BREATHE, keep breathing, go to sleep, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’M OKAY, I’M_


	4. too much hurt for this heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro has a morning workout and makes a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how many chapters long this'll turn out?? not a whole lot though.

Shiro wakes up early next morning, insofar as there is a morning here. Insofar as he got any sleep. He tries to lie still in the cool darkness of his room, let his breathing slow and his body relax. He’s tired; it’s been a long couple of days and he needs his rest. _Breathe in. Breathe out._

It’s not working.

The room is tiny; not windowless, fortunately, but then again the view outside is just...space. Open, star-spattered blackness.

Shiro needs to get out of here.

The door is blank, sleek and handle-less, but a blue panel on its right lights up when he comes near it. Cautiously, Shiro taps it once, and the edges of the door glow a gentle, matching blue. After a few tries, he gets the hang of it, swiping two fingers sideways.

Allura must’ve opened ten doors like this one when they were walking around yesterday--why didn’t he watch her then?

He’s so preoccupied with the thought that he almost trips over the box. It’s just sitting on the floor outside his room, small and innocuous and white. Shiro blinks down at it, trying to figure out why he’s been given an alien present. Looking down the hall, he can’t see any similar boxes outside the doors of his fellow paladins.

Just as his suspicion is about to burst into full-on paranoia, however, a piece of a memory presents itself--

_“I’ll have the necessary tech sent to you later.”_

Personal consoles. The ones Hunk was so excited about. Right. Shiro picks up the box and slides it open.

\--

Like the door, the tablet isn’t hard to work. For all that it’s light-years beyond any tech Earth has going for it, for all that it opens like a scroll of hard light and floats in the air and seems to respond to Shiro’s thoughts...it’s still just touch and swipe. Seems like Earth is getting some things right, at least.

There’s a map, of course--dizzyingly huge, with at least fifteen floors marked on the legend. Shiro spots the Exercise and Recreation Room by chance. (Or maybe the thing read his mind and decided he needs a workout. If so, it’s not wrong.)

There are new clothes in his room as well. Perfectly tailored--Shiro has no idea when they got his measurements. But the material is light and comfortable, and there’s even one with sleeves long enough to cover his prosthetic arm. Shiro pulls it over his head and starts down the hall at a light jog, the map hovering at his side.

Everything since he woke up in the desert has felt almost dreamlike, and it’s only gotten weirder since then. It could have been worse, though. There are touch-screens and exercise rooms and… There’s Allura. An alien, but also just another person...a princess, maybe, but a person. It makes this whole ordeal feel a little more grounded in reality.

A new window pops up next to his map, instantly recognizable as a contacts list. It blurs, shuffles, and then the names fall neatly into alphabetical order.

Shiro looks at the first one. _Allura._

“I don’t need this,” Shiro tells the scroll. “What am I supposed to do, invite her to work out with me?”

No answer.

But now that he’s said it…

Shiro reaches out and taps her name before he can think about it--and then instantly panics-- _what are you thinking, end call, end call, bad idea!_ He hears the faintest flash of what might have been a _“Hello?”_ before his finger finds a red button and the window closes.

Bullet dodged. He can just say it was an accident later.

Shiro breathes a sigh of relief, waves away the contacts list, and keeps following the map.

\--

It takes longer to reach the room than he expected; even with directions, it’s easy to get turned around, and what’s more, one of the hallways he’s supposed to take is roped off for cleaning. The good news is, he’s now an expert in opening doors--and, by now, ready to see a surprise beyond any door he opens. Aliens are everywhere, after all.

He was not, however, prepared for this particular alien.

Prince Lotor is wearing a snug gray tanktop and black, knee-length trousers. He’s barefoot, too, which Shiro wouldn’t have expected. Apart from being huge and purple and...admittedly pretty cut, he looks almost normal. If there’s one thing that might give him away as a prince, it’s that posture--poised and elegant, just like Allura’s. Shiro doesn’t slouch himself, but he knows it’s different; he’s military, a soldier.

Lotor may be from a galaxy far, far, _far_ away, but he’s still recognizable as royalty.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, grinning at Shiro.

“...I could say the same to you.”

Lotor’s laugh has a faint, guttural chirr behind it. “My little joke. You invited Allura, and I was with her, so I invited myself. She’ll be along presently.”

 _I was with her_. Shiro can feel his face starting to prickle with heat and prays Lotor can’t see it. “...I didn’t invite her.”

“Didn’t you?” Lotor frowns at him. “Hm--but the call read ‘en route to Exercise and Recreation’. It shares your location on default...ah, perhaps you forgot to change that setting?”

“Like alien Facebook,” mutters Shiro, disgruntled.

“I don’t have that word.”

“Lucky you.” Shiro would have liked that to be the end of the conversation, but Lotor is already coming his way. Shiro ducks through the door without making eye contact, determined to concentrate on the exercise he came here for. The floor is smooth, white and just a little springy. Shiro bounces on the balls of his feet, testing it, and throws a few quick jabs at the air.

“Long sleeves again,” observes Lotor. “And _gloves_! Not standard wear for such activities. Hiding an embarrassing tattoo, maybe? Do Terrans not have the technology to remove those?”

“I don’t see why it would matter to you,” Shiro replies shortly, pulling one arm across his chest. As usual, the muscles connected to his prosthetic have gotten stiff and achey overnight.

“Well, I shouldn’t think it’s because you’re ashamed of your physique,” says Lotor, copying his shoulder stretch. Shiro switches to the other arm. Lotor follows suit, eyes moving lazily over Shiro’s torso.

Damn it. “Do you spend a lot of your time ogling aliens, your majesty?” Shiro asks sharply.

Lotor’s smile vanishes. “I can’t _imagine_ what you mean,” he drawls, letting his arms drop to his sides. “Now--why don’t you go do whatever it is humans do for exercise, and when Allura arrives you can watch and learn. Our sparring matches are said to be...something of a spectacle.”

Shiro tries to ignore the syrupy, implicative pause. “Not surprised. I wouldn’t underestimate her.”  
“I never underestimate,” says Lotor crisply, and moves to a console near the door. “What do you want? Weights?”

Shiro nods reluctantly, and with a few keystrokes from Lotor, a shelf folds out of the wall--and then three more in quick succession.

“Enjoy,” says Lotor. It’s possible he’s expecting a “thank you”, but Shiro really isn’t in the mood to give it. He came here to relax, but he screwed up and now...this is happening. No, thank you.

He’d hoped to play it cool when Allura arrived, maybe just wave a little from the corner, explain that this was all an accident. But she makes a beeline directly for him, beaming. “Shiro! I trust you’re feeling better! I think a morning workout is _just_ the thing for nerves--if only you’d brought along the rest of the paladins…”

“Well--I--thought...I could use some alone time,” says Shiro, and then inwardly kicks himself. She seems to pleased to have been invited, he can’t-- “With--with you. I mean, _not_ just with--just--”

“He is the _picture_ of courtly manners, this Black Paladin of yours,” calls Lotor from across the room. It rankles, but Shiro can’t help feeling relieved--god, stammering and sweating? What is this, high school?

“Our ideas of manners are very different, Lotor.” Allura touches one of the wall consoles with practiced deftness. She glances at Shiro, raising her eyebrows disparagingly. “ _Galra,_ what do you expect.”

“You wound me,” says Lotor, approaching the unfolding shelves. “I am wounded.”

“Not yet, you’re not!” Allura nudges him with her shoulder, selecting a long white staff from a rack of weapons. Lotor actually laughs and nudges her back as he reaches for a blunt, double-bladed practice sword. Watching them, Shiro can feel something complicated happening in his chest. A tangle of emotions, inchoate and sweet-sour. He pushes them down before he can get a clear picture, because _nope_ , no, he doesn’t need anything extra making this whole experience weirder.

...There has to be a bench press option somewhere around here.

He wasn’t actually expecting it, but there is, in fact. Aliens have bench pressing. And weights that get heavier or lighter without any apparent change in mass. And auto-spotters, which is great, because Shiro isn’t sure he could deal with Allura watching him exercise...or Lotor, for that matter.

They stretch and shadowbox while he’s lifting, and after a while Shiro kind of starts to forget they’re there. It’s...nice, like working out with his squad at the Garrison. Just being around other people, the companionable background chatter, the smell of sweat and the burn in his muscles. It’s good.

It’s also not so good, in some ways. Shiro’s prosthetic arm doesn’t get tired; when his left is starting to feel wobbly and weak, his right is...nothing. He can still feel it in his chest and shoulder, but--

He caves, stops sooner than he wanted to. Tells himself he just wants to watch Lotor and Allura’s fight. Lotor told him to, after all. Might as well let the guy show off, if he wants to that badly.

They’re just squaring off, and they both glance over at him when he sits up. Shiro tries an awkward, sweaty grin and gets a pair of smiles in return. He swallows hard and hefts a couple of vaguely barbell-shaped objects, fiddling with the weight settings.

“Shiro, would you, er, do the honors?”

“Huh?”

Lotor says something, too low and fast to be understood. Allura shushes him, glaring, and then looks back at Shiro with a cough. “What I mean is, would you count us off to start?”

“Oh--sure. Uh...Ready...set--”

Lotor surges forward before he can say _go_. Shiro would have objected, but Allura was clearly ready for an early start and redirects his blade handily. Two quick thumps to his ribs, and Lotor retreats again, grinning.

“Very nice!”

“Save your breath!” Allura retorts. “If I needed you to teach me how to win a _street fight_ \--”

“Well, you’ll have to learn at some point.”

“You are incorrigible,” says Allura, and advances, spinning her staff in a liquid blur. Lotor dances and dodges, arching gracefully away from her blows. Allura is direct, precise, and never hesitant. Swing, spin, a fast flurry of strikes, the muscles in her back bunching and flexing with each attack. And they’re both fast, almost too fast for Shiro’s eyes to follow. Lotor’s face is the picture of breathless enjoyment white fangs bared--he lunges in, laughing, and lands a quick series of hits. Allura growls, deep and inhuman, and throws him back.

They settle back for a slow moment, glaring. Lotor blows a loose loop of hair out of his face, hips cocked at an impractical angle. Allura plucks at the front of her sweaty shirt, letting cool air billow under it. When it settles, her neckline is significantly lower than before. It’s like they’re _posing_ , which is ridiculous. They’re in the middle of a sparring match, there’s no reason--

Shiro feels that weird, complicated cocktail of emotions rise in his chest again and immediately tamps it back down again. Okay, bicep curls. This is fine. He tries to find his rhythm again, breathing with the movement, but...

Well, they’re very. Distracting. The sparring, that is, not the way Allura’s torso twists, or Lotor’s--

Shiro is _not_ looking at an alien’s ass. He’s not doing this. He’s just going to finish this set, and make his excuses and get the hell out of--

He loses his train of thought as Lotor spins, hair whipping behind him, to take a vicious swing at shoulder-level. Allura catches his blade and presses it away from her with ease, and for a second they’re nose to nose, the lines of their bodies straining in opposition.

“Stronger than you look, as ever,” Lotor pants. Allura frowns at him.

“Weaker than you act,” she says, and twists, hooking one of Lotor’s ankles with her own to sweep his foot forward. A moment later he’s pinned under her staff, his hair a starburst of white underneath him, and Allura’s grinning. Shiro watches their chests heave. Takes in every point of contact between their bodies. Feels like he’s watching something private.

“Ready to switch to wrestling?” says Lotor, wickedly dry, and twists to snake a leg around one of Allura’s thighs.

“Why, you--” Allura starts, and then her eyes catch Shiro, frozen mid bicep curl in the corner, and her dark cheeks go darker. “...No,” she says abruptly, sitting back. “That will be quite enough for, er, today. Thank you.”

Lotor glances at Shiro too, his face betraying no significant emotion. “My pleasure, Princess. But next time--”

“Next time, I’ll win again,” says Allura crisply, disentangling herself from the grapple.

Lotor laughs, hopping nimbly to his feet. “Not in wrestling, Allura. I could pin a Sehaxian Optopod--”

“Because you are double-jointed and you fight dirty!”

“You disapprove of a dirty fight?” Lotor folds his arms, half-smiling. “Then what did we just have?”

“Off with you!” Allura hisses, and whips her staff around in a quick figure eight, still blushing. “Report back to your father, or--whatever it is you do in your spare time, I for one do not care!”

Lotor’s smile drops a fraction. “...That,” he says after a moment, “among other things.”

Shiro and Allura watch him stalk out of the room, scooping up his sword and tossing it carelessly at the magnetized weaponry rack. The door shuts with a soft hiss, sealing an awkward silence in behind him.

“...I do hate it when his last word isn’t insufferably smug,” says Allura after a moment, re-adjusting her shirt. “It means I’ve hurt his feelings.”

\--

Paladin training starts after breakfast. Keith refuses to eat any alien food, preferring the dehydrated rations they brought with them. Hunk and Pidge, however, dig in with gusto, and even Lance manages a few bites...mainly to spite Keith, if Shiro had to guess. Coran informed them that the menu had been screened for “human compatibility”, so there’s that at least. Shiro’s hungry enough not to care at this point.

This training room is larger, with an observation deck some fifty feet above the floor and, according to Coran, a truly bewildering variety of capabilities.

“...But before I can show you any of them, I have some _questions_ for the lot of you!” Coran pauses, frowning. “Or, well, just one of you. Mister Takashi--”

“Shiro is fine.”

“Mister Shiro! Voltron was looking for you _long_ after it had discovered the other paladins! How did you avoid their attention for so long?”

“I--” Shiro pauses, on the verge of telling the whole story. Kerberos, desert, hospital...the tests and speculations and strange results. Pidge would probably tell Coran if he asked them. And there’s no reason to think the Alteans couldn’t just scan Earth’s media for mentions of him and find out that way. So there’s no point in hiding it. And yet, and yet… “I...don’t know.”

Coran narrows his eyes. “There wasn’t anything _unusual_ about those two years?”

“Not that I can remember.” Technically the truth.

Coran _harrumph_ s, clearly unsatisfied, but after a moment he turns his back on the group and Shiro breathes the barest sliver of a sigh. If anyone notices, they’re too interested in the helmets to comment.

There are five--helmets, that is. Glossy and brightly colored, with white trim that spikes down on either side of the visor like fangs. Black, red, green, blue, and yellow, lined up neatly on a platform by the wall.

“Altogether, you will _become_ Voltron, but the singular sets of armor are referred to as lions,” says Coran heartily, flourishing a hand at the helmets.

Keith tilts his head on one side. “Right. Because...they look sort of like lions.”

“Oh, great,” says Pidge. “Cool…” They pause, grimacing. “... _visual motif._ Actually, how do you guys also have lions? Isn’t it weird that it’s, like, a word we both-- _”_

“I really don’t think this is a relevant discussion!” says Coran stiffly. “And for that matter, the aesthetic appeal of the lions has been key to more than one famous victory in Voltron’s legacy!”

“Alright, well,” says Lance, “as much as I’d like to hear _all_ of those stories, how do we get started here? ‘Cause I am ready to try out all this fancy-ass space stuff!”

“Well, hold your yalmors, because the only _fancy-arse space stuff_ you’ll be wearing today is your helmet!” says Coran testily. “You may be able to sense which is yours just by feeling out its aura, but if not...never fear! Especially the Red Paladin--you’re always trickier than the rest.”

Shiro has a good idea which is his already. _So you’re the new Black Paladin._ It’s just as well, though, because he doesn’t feel much of anything when he retrieves the black helmet from its stand.

Coran gives him an approving wink. “Very good! The Black Paladin is the leader of Voltron, and the central consciousness of its psychic net! Stalwart! Powerful! A protector of their comrades!”

“I think...I feel something too,” says Lance, eyes fluttering closed. “Yeah...okay...I’m feeling kinda drawn to this one…”

“ _I_ want that one,” says Pidge suddenly, hands closing on the green helmet.

“What? But--”

“That is correct, Pidge!”

“Yeah, well.” Pidge flips the helmet over, inspecting its interior. “This thing talked to me in a psychic vision, remember? And I remember a lot of green, so…”

Coran bridles, frowning officiously under his mustache. “That’s...one way of doing it, I _suppose_ , but--”

“Oh,” says Keith, “then I’m red, I guess.”

“And you said _yellow_ yesterday when I was talking about the Wizard of Oz,” says Hunk, grinning at a now severely disgruntled Coran.

“But--there are _protocols!_ _Traditions!_ This is a test of your psychic connections, and a chance for me to tell you all about Voltron’s perfect balance of personalities! Don’t you want to hear the profile of traits that leads each lion to its paladin?!”

“You can tell us about that now,” says Lance, rolling his eyes as he grabs the blue helmet. “No big deal.”

“ _Humans_.”

“Come on now.” Shiro nudges Coran coaxingly. “You only know five of us!”

“And you’re all bloody intolerable.”

But Coran can’t stay moody forever. There’s more lecturing to do, about how Keith should be bold and aggressive; Hunk, compassionate and reliable; Pidge, creative and curious; and Lance, clever and unpredictable. Before long, he’s got them all herded into a rough circle, cross-legged on the floor, wearing their respective helmets.

“Now, you ought to feel the connection right away...just emotions for now, although _some_ teams in the past have accessed each other’s thoughts on the first go!” He gives the paladins a look that manages to suggest his hopes are not high, and continues, “Well...tell me what you’re picking up, paladins!”

Pidge raises a hand. “How are we supposed to tell if a feeling’s from someone else?”

“You will _feel_ your mind opening,” Coran snaps, “now what do you feel?! _Focus!_ ”

The word stabs Shiro’s skull, sends hot prickles over his neck and shoulders. _Why_ , he thinks desperately, feeling his stomach and lungs cramp painfully. _Why is this happening, what’s doing this--_

\--

_Focus. Focus._

_“G///et in// the///re,_ champion _\--”_

_\--_

“Whoa there, buddy.”

It’s Hunk. Sitting next to him. Room. Training. Shiro feels like he’s--somewhere-- _somewhere else_ \--

“Uh, hold up. Everyone hold up!”

“I’m fine.” Shiro smiles, even though his whole body has locked up. “I just--need a moment.”

“You’re having a _panic attack_.” The thought of his words reverberates through Shiro’s head. It feels--true. Familiar. Hunk knows it, so he knows it too.

“I--am?”

“You _really_ are,” says Hunk. “You guys can feel this too, right?”

Pidge nods tightly. “Like studying for finals in a class I hate. But worse.”

“Or getting sensory overload without an exit,” mutters Keith, who looks slightly nauseous. “Shiro, what’s wrong? Is this what was happening when we left atmo?”

Shiro’s gut twinges. “No big deal. Happens all the time during takeoffs.”

“Well then, buck up!” says Coran, looking a little miffed. “You’re not on a spaceship now, m’boy! Well, you are, in a sense, but it’s a station, and it’s hardly moving, so--”

“You can’t _buck up_ through a panic attack!” snaps Hunk. “That’s the opposite of helpful! I thought you were like, super future aliens! You should know this stuff!” And then, before Coran can answer, “Shiro, I’m gonna try and, like, send you some chill vibes, okay?”

“My dad taught me breathing exercises,” says Keith, who sounds kind of blankly worried.

“I’m fine,” Shiro insists, although just saying the words out loud makes his stomach tighten painfully. _They can tell you’re not. They_ know _you’re not._

“I think we need a break,” says Keith sharply.

“No,” Shiro starts, but the others are already taking off their helmets. “No, I’m fine--”

“We’ll come back to this later,” Coran promises, but he looks...disappointed. And Shiro can’t blame him.

“Alright! Let’s...let’s move on to combat training!”


	5. feels like a hopeless place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The voltron team is finally put to the test, but one particular paladin really steals the show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter after this! an epic story this ain't, haha. my first and only vld fic...I wish it well. season 6 put a bit of a cramp in my shallotor good times, and I don't think I'll ever really write more after this one's done. but I'd like to thank anyone still reading and enjoying this. thank you! <3

Combat training is easy.  Or at least, it felt easy; Shiro can hardly remember any of it, just a mess of vague moments, like a film he watched on mute and hardly paid attention to.  He knows Coran ran them through some kind of group routine, over and over again. He has the faint impression that Coran kept nudging him to step up and instruct the group.

Shiro should probably feel bad that he didn’t.  He should feel something. Anything.

He doesn’t.  It’s like there’s a partition in his brain, blank and impenetrable.  They get lunch. He eats without feeling hungry. They’re given leave to explore the station before evening training.  He heads back to his room. Keith is definitely worried about him but Shiro can’t bring himself to offer any comfort.

He lies down, not tired but not anything else either.

It wasn’t anything.  It was just a word. And now he’s like this, and it doesn’t make any sense.

He should be confused, frustrated, angry even.  He’s nothing.

\--

It’s better, later.  Just a little. He’s cried once, weak and hoarse, not really understanding why.

There’s an alarm set for a few hours out--evening Paladin training--but that’s more than enough time to…  Well, do something else, even if Shiro isn’t exactly sure what.

He considers calling the others, but the idea is painful somehow and--anyway, they’re probably out having a good time.  In Shiro’s experience, nothing ruins a party like the squad captain showing up.

So he wanders instead.

The Convocation guests don’t acknowledge his presence beyond a few stares and whispers, which is fine.  Shiro’s not exactly champing at the bit to make conversation right now.  _ Just keep walking _ .

And he does, until he finds himself on the main concourse, looking at a neatly-squared troupe of Galra with Lotor at the front.  He appears to be delivering some kind of speech. Unconsciously, Shiro moves a little closer, trying to pick up coherent sentences through the constant rustle of the crowd.

_ “...for the glory of the Galra.  Our opponents are new to combat but we mustn’t underestimate them.  I fully expect you to--” _

Someone in the Galra squad mutters, too quiet to hear, and there are a few answering chuckles.  They don’t sound kind. Lotor barely pauses, but Shiro thinks he stands a little straighter, shoulders squaring.  A minute later, it happens again, and this time the laughter is a little louder. This continues until Lotor concludes his speech, icily composed, and dismisses the squad to go about their business.

Shiro had meant to leave, but there’s something about the way Lotor stands where he is, hard-faced and statuesque, that makes him stare a little longer.

And then Lotor turns to look at him, and the stony expression breaks to be replaced with something like--anger?  Embarrassment, even? Shiro wouldn’t have thought he was capable of it.

Some part of him feels like he should say something.

“Nice speech,” he says, approaching Lotor through the crowd.  Lotor snorts, folding his arms. “No, I mean it. Can’t say your squad seemed to like it, though.  I’ve had a few teams like that…”

“I was only a captain when I served my requisite time in the Galra Regiment,” says Lotor stiffly.  “Now that I’ve resumed my princely duties, I do technically outrank them, but…”

“They don’t see it that way,” Shiro finishes for him, nodding.  “That’s a tough situation.” Privately, he’s less than sympathetic.   _ Oh no, it must be so hard, being a prince.  You definitely don’t deserve to be taken down a peg. _

Lotor grimaces.  “Well. I’m used to being underestimated.  Disrespected.”

“I’m sure,” says Shiro, who’s having trouble maintaining a diplomatic attitude.  Lotor shoots him a sharp yellow look.

“...You don’t know much about me, Shirogane, do you?  I thought Allura would have filled you in on my history.”

“Well, she didn’t.”

“No.”  Lotor actually sighs; on closer inspection, he really does look tired.  “No, I should know by now. She’s not the type to gossip.”

“Mm.”  Shiro tries to get a read on his expression again, and for a moment there’s  _ something _ \--but it’s gone too soon to pin down.  Replaced by the cold, princely expression he wore while making his speech.

“You said something about  _ our opponents, _ ” says Shiro.

“Eh?  What?”

“Earlier, when you were...addressing your troops.  Who are you supposed to be fighting?”

To his surprise, Lotor’s face splits into a fangy white smile.  “Oh, haven’t you heard?”

Shiro frowns.  “I guess not.”

“Soon you and your Paladins will be engaging in mock combat with my soldiers.”

“...No, I...Coran didn’t mention that.”

“Well, he’d much rather discuss the past than the present.  As I’m sure you’ve noticed. At any rate, three movements from now, you’ll be testing your psychic synergy in the face of Galran might.”  Lotor smiles again, or at least bares his teeth. “I hope you’re fast learners.”

_ I don’t think we are,  _ Shiro doesn’t say, his heart sinking.  “...How long is a movement? I don’t have that...unit.”

“Oh, I keep forgetting you’re not on Standard Galactic Time.  It, er…” Lotor pauses and frowns, apparently stumped. Shiro’s never seen such a look of earnest concentration on his face. It’s almost…

Shiro cuts that thought off as soon as it starts.   _ Nope.  He’s an asshole.  We’re not doing this. _

“Well--you don’t have vargas and doboshes either…”

Shiro snorts without really meaning to.  “Uh--no, sorry.”

Lotor shoots him a look hanging somewhere between amusement and annoyance, and then brightens suddenly.  “Allura!”

“A--what?”

“She’ll have something for this, I guarantee it,” mutters Lotor, clicking thoughtfully in the back of his throat as he opens his contacts list.  “And she ought to be in the area, if I know her…”

Less than a minute later, Allura appears, as though summoned by magic, out of thin air.  She seems nervous but almost oddly pleased to see them together, and rambles happily about time unit conversions while Shiro takes notes.  (Lotor asserts he will ‘recall it without assistance’.)

They start walking without deciding to aloud, winding their way along the concourse.  Allura, apparently, has been in meetings since the early-morning workout. (Was that really this morning?  It feels like years ago now.) Lotor has been similarly occupied, “debating the selection of squad members with my father”.

“That means  _ arguing _ ,” Allura murmurs knowingly to Shiro.  Lotor glares at both of them.

“I have quite enough trouble on my plate without the two of you constantly mocking me.  Besides which, when it comes to arguing with fathers,  _ Princess _ , you--”

He breaks off suddenly, squinting at a figure that just rounded the corner ahead of them.  “...Isn’t that your father’s pet scientist?”

Allura folds her arms warningly.  “Lotor.”

“Curious creature, isn’t she?”

_ “Lotor.” _

“Oh, please--I don’t mean to offend.”

“And yet,” says Allura.

“And yet,” echoes Shiro under his breath, earning himself another glare.

“...He brings her along to every Convocation, and all she does is stare at people and mutter like an old witch.  You don’t think that’s odd? Does she  _ ask  _ to be here?”

“I think it’s odd that you’re so concerned about it.”

Lotor snorts.  “You should tell my father that.  I’m only quoting him…”

“The less you imitate  _ Emperor Zarkon _ , the better.”

“Emperor Zarkon?” says a new voice.  Shiro twitches, but keeps the flight-or-fight response in control--barely.  The figure from down the hallway is suddenly much closer; a middle-aged Altean with muted purple-ish hair and a hawklike gaze.

“Royal Scientific Advisor Honerva!” Lotor exclaims, genially but with an almost comical edge of shock.  “You know, it doesn’t do to sneak up on people--our human friend here has somewhat fragile nerves.”

“Screw you,” says Shiro, and immediately both Lotor and Allura turn blank, wide-eyed looks on him.

“I  _ do  _ have that word,” Lotor starts.

“--But I’m sure it’s a derogatory,  _ metaphorical _ phrase,” Allura cuts in, before Shiro can say anything.  She glances nervously back at Honerva. “Excuse us, Madame--”

“Nothing wrong with the occasional derogatory phrase, if all parties are enjoying it,” murmurs Lotor, and Allura punches him hard.  He makes a pained chirping noise and clutches his bicep, scowling at her. “ _ What _ ?  You disagree?”

“ _ Control _ yourself,” hisses Allura, and then, to Honerva, “my deepest apologies--I--what can we do for you, Madame?”

Honerva, who seems utterly (and thankfully) disinterested in...whatever’s going on here, waves Allura away.  She’s staring at Shiro (which is unnerving), but not at his face (which is extra unnerving).

“...Yes?” he tries, and then jumps as her hands clamp around his right forearm, dragging it up to her eye level.

“Prosthetic,” she says.  “A very good one, but still--too smooth.  Calibrated. Unnatural. Doesn’t move just like a real arm.  Joints lag when pulled suddenly.”

“That’s...nice,” says Shiro after a moment, trying discreetly to free himself--Honerva’s grip is like a vise, bony brown hands clamped on his arm, eyes roving dispassionately over his hand.

“Is it?” says Lotor, in tones of mild interest.  “I thought it was just a strange glove.”

Shiro’s brow furrows.  “Why would I wear one glove all the time?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Religious reasons? Cultural signifier?  Your planet’s customs are a total mystery to me.”

“Madame Honerva,” says Allura, with a genteel cough.  “If you could release my--my friend, we’d like to be on our way…”

Honerva does so with almost startling immediacy, and Shiro pulls his metal arm protectively up to his chest.  Honerva nods sharply to Allura, glances at Lotor. Opens her mouth. Shuts it again, looking almost angry, and then marches away as suddenly as she came.

“...Well,” says Allura, sounding slightly frazzled.

“Is she always like that?” mutters Shiro, rolling back his right sleeve to examine the prosthetic.

“That’s  _ Galra tech _ ,” says Lotor.  

Shiro looks blankly up at him.  “What?”

“That arm.  It’s Galra-made.”

Allura laughs, disbelieving and uneasy.  “No, it’s not! I’ve seen your prosthetics, they’re--”

“You haven’t seen the new ones.”  Lotor looks as serious as Shiro’s ever seen him, a grimace tugging at the corners of his mouth.  “We’ve, er...been taking a leaf out of your people’s book. The more recent models are much sleeker.  Less clunky and unbalanced.”

Allura frowns, thumbs thoughtfully at her lower lip.  “Yes, I recall your Commander Sendak. Perhaps we could...ask him about it.”

She doesn’t sound especially enthusiastic, but still tuts softly when Lotor doesn’t respond.  “Isn’t he here? I assumed he’d be leading the mock combat against the Paladins.”

“...No,” says Lotor after a long moment.  “That would be me. But this is beside the point.  How did you  _ get  _ this?”

Shiro swallows.  He’s starting to feel distant and detached again, piloting his body more than inhabiting it.  A faint, white-hot chill stirs in his spine. “I don’t...know.”

“You don’t  _ know _ ,” Lotor starts, before Allura steps in.

“Shiro, could this...that is to say, I know you were the last Paladin to be found…”

Shiro looks between the two of them--open, genuine concern contrasted against guarded suspicion--and takes a deep breath.  “Alright. Okay. Maybe you two can help me figure this out. Just don’t...don’t tell anyone else, okay? Please. I’ll talk to the rest of them about it eventually, but…”

“Say no more,” says Lotor with a casual wave of one clawed hand.  “Secrets are second nature to me.”

“That’s...not reassuring,” says Shiro, but he tells them anyway.

It should be an epic saga--two years of his life, uncountable scars, a metal arm--but of course it only takes a few minutes.  Allura is sympathetic and concerned. Lotor is...well.

“And this moon was only  _ how  _ far from your homeworld?”  He doesn’t wait for Shiro to reply, just laughs drily and shakes his head.  “How  _ slow  _ you all must be, and how unaware--”

“You can’t just stereotype the entire population of a planet.”  Shiro has a particular way of folding his arms that makes his chest and biceps bulge impressively; he used to intimidate recruits with it, and it looks like it works on aliens too.  Lotor and Allura share a look and just as quickly avert their eyes.

After a moment, though, Lotor coughs and continues, “And yet the Daibazaali, with our superior analysis of races across the galaxy, have done so and will continue to do so for eons to come,” he says, and then smiles, crooked and humorless.  “It’s part of what made the Galra such  _ efficient conquerors _ .”

Shiro snorts.  Allura says nothing, blue-opal eyes fixed uneasily on Lotor’s face.

“...Just something Sendak always says,” Lotor reassures her, and then, a sour afterthought,  “Not that he is...entirely wrong.”

Allura shudders.  “Ugh. I just hope I can avoid him until the Convocation is over.”

“So say we all,” says Lotor reverently.  “Well. I promise to look into the origin of your arm later, Shirogane.  After the mock battle, perhaps. Shall we walk?”

Shiro opens his mouth.  Hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck.  “I...have paladin training soon.”

“Soon is not  _ now _ ,” says Lotor, and Allura nods, smiling.  “Come on. If we keep the pace brisk, we can be around the station and back in a phoeb.”

“...Which one is that?” says Shiro after a moment, and then, jogging after the two aliens as they speedwalk away, “Is that the minute one?”

\--

Training continues.  They’ve been introduced to their weapons--”bayards”, Coran called them, shapeshifting devices that change to suit the user.  Shiro wouldn’t have recommended them for beginners, but he’s not actually in charge of what they do when, so he’s doing his best.

It’s not easy.  Pidge won’t look at him, Lance and Keith won’t stop fighting, and Hunk’s anxiety is just feeding on the bad atmosphere, but they  _ are  _ getting better at fighting.  Just...not as a unit. The third time Shiro jogs over to wrest Lance out of Keith’s headlock, Lance shoves both of them away from him and tears off his helmet, breathing hard. There’s a moment of tense silence, then Keith opens his mouth to speak and Lance wings his helmet at the floor with an almighty BANG.

“Why are we even here?!”

Coran, who’s been watching with an appalled expression, clears his throat.  “Because--”

“I  _ know!”  _ snaps Lance.  “I know we have to  _ save the universe  _ or whatever, but we’re not--we’re not perfect awesome space soldiers!  We’re just a bunch of dumb kids!” He catches Shiro’s eye and looks away, shame-faced.  “I mean...most of us.”

Shiro, who wants more than anything to say  _ No, me too, I’m not even thirty yet and I can’t do this _ , clears his throat instead and puts on his best authoritative voice.  “Let’s...all take a break, huh?”

He watches them wander off to different corners of the training room, trailing their bayards despondently.  Pidge pulls out their console and scoots over to Hunk, and they peer at the screen together. Keith settles down alone, knees pulled up to his chest, glaring at the floor.  Ordinarily, Shiro would check on him first, but…

He finds Lance sitting in the hallway outside, pretending not to cry.  Shiro sits down a couple feet away, and waits. It takes a while; a couple times, Shiro thinks Lance is just going to get up and leave, but he stays.  After maybe fifteen minutes or so, his breathing slows and his shoulders relax.

“...You wanna talk about it?” says Shiro.

Lance sighs quick and harsh, and wipes his nose on one sleeve.  “I just…” he trails off, his voice cracking. “...It’s a lot, you know?”

“I know,” says Shiro, with feeling.

“And everyone else is just...cool with it, I guess?  I’ve been  _ trying  _ to act like I’m cool.  With it, I mean. Cool with it.”  He flushes, rubs his eyes with both hands.  “ _ Shit.   _ Anyway...half the time I just feel dumb and out of place and...like I’m falling behind.”

“You’re not dumb,” says Shiro.  “I’ve seen you in practice. You always have a different angle, and that’s half of what strategy is.  And you’re a good shot--an amazing one, actually, for how long you’ve been practicing. And everyone else isn’t just cool with it, I promise.”

Lance glares at him, although his wet eyes and reddened nose take some of the sting out of it.  “Oh yeah?”

“ _ Oh  _ yeah,” says a voice behind them.

“Hunk,” says Shiro without turning around.  “How long have you been standing there.”

“Just as long as everyone else,” says Hunk defensively.

“We’re all scared, you know,” says Keith bluntly, peering around the doorframe.

Lance glares at him, but without much real vitriol.  “I’m not scared!”

“Sure,” says Pidge.  “Whatever you say, big man.  Come on, let’s give this another shot, huh?”  Half-smiling, they glance at Shiro, and for a moment he thinks they’re going to say something to him, but then the moment is gone, and Lance is getting up, and it’s time to get back to it.

\--

Shiro wakes up from a nightmare he doesn’t remember in the early hours of the morning, and doesn’t want to try sleeping again.  He thinks about calling Allura, and then about calling Lotor, and then wonders why on Earth he would do that.

A walk.  He’ll go for a walk, and he won’t call anyone.

Restless, anxiety-fueled morning hikes have become par for the course over the few short days he’s been here.  By now, he almost kind of knows where he’s going without a map.  _ Good job, Shirogane.  You’re a real credit to the Garrison. _

The Galra have their own wing of the station; Shiro’s passed it often enough on his walks, saw Lotor vanish down its entrance corridor yesterday.  Usually, though, there’s a crowd of purple soldiers hanging out around the door, cleaning their weapons and glaring at passersby. Today it’s empty.  Or that’s what Shiro thinks, until he hears the argument.

It’s two voices, deep and quiet, one faintly familiar--and Shiro has a good guess who it might be.  He slows, not wanting to pass the door and be seen, but too curious to turn around just yet.

“...do not understand why you would choose to put me through this when my true calling lies with our  _ colonies _ .”  That’s definitely Lotor.

“Prove yourself here and we will see whether your pack of half-breeds--”

“ _ Father _ \--”

“You will address me as Emperor when we are on this station,” says the other voice, a cold rumble.   _ Emperor _ , thinks Shiro.   _ Emperor Zarkon. _

“‘Half-breeds’ like them--like  _ me _ \--are the future of the empire your forebears forged,  _ Emperor _ .  And I commend you on your...delicate choice of words.”

“ _ Insolent boy _ .”

Lotor snorts.  “Yes,  _ do  _ keep spewing the same insults you’ve used since I was a child, I’m sure there’s still some  _ sting  _ left in them.”

There’s a sound, then.  Hard to parse, a faint swish and a quick clatter of footsteps.  A pause.

“You see,” says Lotor, the humor gone from his voice.  “I’ve gotten better at fighting. Emperor.”

Zarkon grunts.  “You’ve gotten better at dodging.  Is that what the galaxy can look forward to at the mock battle?”

“The  _ galaxy  _ can look forward to a Galra victory,” snaps Lotor, his voice echoing down the hall so that Shiro doesn’t have to strain to hear.  “Something you haven’t had the chance to show it in--”

A quick, painful  _ thud _ cuts him off.  Shiro stiffens, brow furrowing, trying to decide whether to intervene, but then he hears Lotor’s voice and has to edge closer to the door to listen.

_ “...barely even hurt.  You weak, stupid old man.” _

Another pause, and then the sound of a door closing, and muffled footsteps.  Shiro makes an abrupt about-turn, and rounds a nearby corner at a half-jog. His gut hasn’t stopped churning when he gets back to his bedroom.

\--

The mock battle comes up sooner than Shiro wanted it to, which is to say, it comes up.  Suddenly, Shiro finds himself in a little room adjacent to an obstacle-filled arena, looking around at his extremely nervous team.  Of course, he’s also extremely nervous, but he’s the leader so they can’t know that.

“Alright,” he says.  “We’ve been working for this.  And I’m so proud of how far each of you has come since we started.  More than anything, I want all of you to focus on doing what we do in practice, alright?  Because this is  _ just practice.” _

“It’s also an opportunity for you to form Voltron under the stress of actual combat!” pipes up Coran out of nowhere, making Shiro jump and the rest of the team fully freak out.

“I’m sorry, what?” says Pidge.  “You didn’t tell us that!”

“Oh, man, we couldn’t even manage any kind of psychic connection think in practice,” groans Hunk.  “Guys, I don’t feel so good…”

“You don’t  _ have  _ to,” says Shiro in his most calming voice, trying to ignore the part of him that kind of wants to punch Coran in the mustache.

“No, no, but you are  _ expected  _ to,” says Coran, and then, before Shiro can decide on whether to do the punching thing, “The princess told me to wish you luck, Shiro.”

All thoughts of punching immediately banished, Shiro straightens up, scratching the back of his neck.  “She did? Uh, well...thank her from all of us.”

“Oh.”  Coran thinks for a moment, and then shrugs.  “Er...yeah, she probably wishes the rest of you luck too!  I’ll let her know. Don’t let the side down!!”

“Sure,” murmurs Shiro.  The giddy feeling suddenly flooding his chest is almost as distracting as the nerves, and for some reason it only gets worse when he hears a familiar voice behind him.

“Shirogane.”

Shiro turns around and tries to look serious and focused.  It’s kind of hard for a moment, in the face of Lotor’s aggravatingly dashing grin and princely saunter, but it gets easier when Shiro sees the cut on his cheek.  The bruise around it is a patchy blue, and soberingly dark.

Even more sobering is the squad of Galra flanking Lotor, looking like grim death.  Shiro prays his own squad isn’t feeling too intimidated, but doesn’t want to show weakness by checking.

“Prince Lotor,” he says, nodding.

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” says Lotor, leaning over just a little bit so that Shiro has to crane his neck to look up at him.  God, what he wouldn’t give to grab this asshole by the collar and pull him down to...to…

“May the better team win,” says Shiro absentmindedly.  The Galra pause for a moment, like they’re trying to sort out what those words are supposed to mean all together.

“...Yes.  Well. Thank you,” says Lotor after a moment, and doesn’t even look like he’s being intentionally disingenuous, the bastard.  Shiro can practically hear Lance’s teeth grinding, and suppresses a groan.

It’s going to be a very long day.

By the look on Coran’s face, he’s feeling about as optimistic as Shiro.

\--

The cheering of the crowd sets Shiro on edge, for reasons he doesn’t understand.  He’s never been afraid of public speaking, never felt nerves like this before soccer matches as a kid.  In fact, he  _ enjoyed  _ skirmishes like this while he was with the Garrison.  Now he just feels uncomfortable in his skin, on the edge of some emotional precipice he can’t quite fathom.

Hopefully it’ll get easier after the battle kicks off.

Each team is starting behind an artificial blockade at opposite ends of the arena.  The rules, as Shiro can recall through the buzz of anxiety, are essentially those of Capture the Flag: incapacitate every enemy or take their base.  Easy.

Cheering.  Crowd. Arena.  Countdown. Everything feels too real.  There’s a strange taste in his mouth. He can hear himself talking distantly-- _ ”Lance, stay here and cover us, but use your judgment.  Keith, you and I will be the advance guard. Pidge and Hunk, defense.  Got it?” _

They nod.  Shiro tries to make himself smile but has no idea whether he’s succeeding.   _ “Great.  We can do this, team.” _

A chance to form Voltron, Coran said.  Like Shiro wants anyone sharing his brain right now.  He motions to Keith and they advance, dodging between columns, taking cover, watching for Galra attackers.  Now this--this feels familiar. This feels right. Like playing paintball with his old Garrison squad. Shiro starts to relax, gets the peculiar feeling that he’s sinking back into his body after having shifted out of it.

And then there’s a flash of movement to his right, a sharp scraping noise and a yell.  Cold metal touches Shiro’s neck and

\--

_ screaming roaring blood thundering fight fight fight for your life _

\--

his body is made of fear and rage

\--

_ FIGHT//////CHAMPION//// _

\--

where is he

\--

**_FIGHT OR DIE_ **

\--

the storm coalesces back into a mind, a conscious, thinking human.  His body--a buzz of senseless terror--starts to turn solid again. He feels--heat, clothes, sweat.  Fear-flush. His heartbeat is a rabbit-fast thrum in his throat. His breath is a saw.

Something shifts under him and he realizes--there’s someone there.  Pinned under one knee. Neck in his hand.  _ Galra _ .

_ (break their neck BREAK IT // you’re so dead, you have to run) _

“...Shiro?”

He feels his head snap around, eyes fixing on a face.  Keith. Keith’s here?

Space station.  Convocation. Combat exercise.

“You--you can let that guy go,” says Keith slowly.  “It’s over, Shiro.”

_ “As he says.” _

The voice is choked but familiar.  Shiro blinks down at Lotor--the watering yellow eyes, the silvery mane spread over the floor.  The purple skin fading white under Shiro’s viselike metal grip. He shifts awkwardly off of Lotor, starting to tremble all over.  He feels sick.

“So, uh,” he says.  Swallows. “Did, uh...did you guys get the rest of them?”

Silence.  He looks up at Keith, who’s sharing uneasy looks with the rest of the Paladins.  The nausea increases.

“...What?”

Keith frowns.  His hands are loose at his sides, but he keeps flicking them nervously, like he’s shaking off water.  “Do you...not remember?”

“Remember wh--”

“ _ You  _ got the rest of them,” says Pidge.  Their voice is hard and blank.

\--

The last thing Shiro wants to do right now is watch the footage, but Keith seems so worried about his memory, and the Galra he fought are...inexplicably eager to re-watch their defeat in HD.  Shiro’s tried to apologize to them for the gashes and bruises--and in one case, a broken nose--but they just wave off his stammering. More than one of them thumps him on the back as they pass.

_ “They like you better than me,” _ Lotor mutters to him, voice still harsh and constricted.   _ “...I could have beaten you.” _

Shiro doesn’t say anything.  If Lotor thinks he’s proud of what just happened, he couldn’t be more wrong.

_ “I wasn’t expecting that level of ferocity,” _ Lotor continues.   _ “On the battlefront, certainly.  In a  _ training exercise _ …”   _ His voice catches and he trails off, one hand going automatically to his throat.  He’ll have more bruises soon--impressive ones. Shiro’s surprised he can talk at all.  He wonders, suddenly, how Lotor’s father is going to feel about this.

“I...wasn’t expecting it either,” he says.  Lotor gives him a slow, silent look, then turns his attention to the recording.  Shiro watches too. Halfway through, he finds himself making excuses and heading for the door.  He doesn’t look back.

\--

“You really don’t remember any of it?” says Allura.  She wrapped an arm around one of Shiro’s when she saw him in the hallway, and hasn’t let go since.  Her hand is warm and dry in his, her shoulder pressed to his where they sit on the bench overlooking the concourse.  Lotor hovers over both of them, looking uncertain and worse for the wear.

Shiro doesn’t look at either of them, just shakes his head.  “...And looking at the footage--”

Allura squeezes his hand.  Lotor shifts, as though about to reach out to him, and then abruptly pulls back, folding his arms awkwardly.

“I can’t say I understood at first what you found so distressing about it,” he says brusquely.  “But-- _ but _ \--that…”

“ _ Thing _ ,” says Shiro flatly.

“Man.  I was going to say that  _ man  _ who was fighting out there.  That wasn’t...you. Though certainly my father won’t--”  Lotor cuts himself off with a faint clicking noise, frowning.  “...My apologies. I did not mean to… I realize my...familial issues are not--”

“You didn’t mean to make it about you,” Shiro translates, trying to smile.  “Apology accepted. I...uh. You know, I don’t blame you for being worried.”

“Well.”  Lotor makes the face of a man who can’t decide whether he wanted to hear he’s been forgiven.  “Thank you. I suppose. However, as Allura and I were discussing the other day…”

“Oh!  Yes,” says Allura, sitting up straighter (Shiro feels a twinge of sadness as she releases his hand).   “Shiro, Lotor and I were talking about it, and…”

“Yes?” says Shiro too eagerly, his heart doing a sudden double beat.  Could they be--

“Well, since there’s the banquet after the mock battle, everyone will be occupied...which means...the three of us will have some time to ourselves...to find out what’s going on with your arm!”

Shiro freezes for just a moment, staring blankly at her as his mind readjusts.

“...Something the matter?” says Lotor, squinting at him.

“Oh...no, I just...that sentence didn’t end the way I…  Never mind,” mutters Shiro, his ears burning. He’s exhausted, that’s what it is.  He’s tired and delirious and he feels like he’s going crazy, and he really thought they were going to--

“And then maybe after that we can all have sex,” says Lotor.

“Oh, yes!” says Allura, and coughs.  “That too. If you wanted.”

Shiro stares at her.  At Lotor. At Allura again.  This is really happening. He needs to say something, quick, or it’s going to get weird.

“...Sounds good,” he says.  Allura laughs, and Lotor rolls his eyes, grinning.

“A true poet.  Come on, Shirogane, let’s take a look at that arm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I should probably include "uses the word sex once" in the tags, now...no explicit content incoming, though. we stayin true to our T rating, lads.


	6. INCOMPLETE ; end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't finish this so here are the bits and pieces that were left in the story. If I could, I'd write it, but there is not an ounce of passion left in my soul for it. I started writing it during a time when I was trying to understand how to enjoy making stories again, and it served its purpose in that experiment--though I can't say I think it turned out very well. Still, I thank anyone who read and enjoyed this story! I'm glad you found something you liked in it. <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are just the bits and pieces I wrote to try and kickstart the chapter! They did not work!! But here they are, with asterisks to show the parts that still need to be written (all of them). Anyway, again, thanks! I'll probably orphan this work in a bit and try to write something I like again.

6

IN SHORT: Sendak was running a secret fight ring where he'd pit abducted aliens against each other for fun and profit. Zarkon isn't evil, he's just bitter because Honerva didn't want to stay with him (which is of course her prerogative). Voltron fights Sendak as one and they Do So Good. Loose ends tie up, OT3.

“Alright,” says Allura, “you’re hooked up. Lotor?”  
Lotor nods, fingers moving in quick, disjointed patterns over the purple Galra screens. “Alright, Shirogane…”  
“Shiro,” Shiro corrects him automatically, and then yelps a little as his whole body twitches. “--Whoa!! What was that?”  
“Your nerves are spliced into the prosthetic,” murmurs Lotor, still tapping and swiping away. “You should know that by now, keep up. There’s a whole system in here, actually...it may take a little guesswork to get me into the executive systems, so if you feel anything else--”  
Another jolt runs through Shiro’s body, hot and strange, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He gasps aloud, twisting in his seat, and Lotor says, “...that means I’ve hit a firewall. This shouldn’t...take long.”  
“I’m fine.” Shiro settles back against the chair again. “Just--give me a moment to catch my breath.”  
“By all means,” says Allura, and then, gingerly, “...Are you alright?”  
Shiro shoots her a smile. “Of course. Just felt a little weird, I’m fine.”  
“Yes,” says Lotor drily, “it certainly...sounded that way.”  
“Lotor,” Allura snaps.

“Almost there--”  
“Aah,” says Shiro, gripping both arms of his chair. Allura’s face swims into his vision, looking nervous.  
“Sh--Shiro, are you alright? Does it hurt?”  
“Nnno!” Shiro manages, and then, because she doesn’t seem convinced, “Just--like--ah--pins and needles--all over--”  
“I don’t have that word,” Lotor and Allura interrupt almost simultaneously, and Shiro grunts in frustration as his nerves light up again.  
“Nnnghtingling, is what--I mean--”  
“Oh,” says Allura hoarsely. “Well--”  
“And--done.” Lotor slams the last key with satisfaction, and Shiro collapses with a gasp as his body abruptly stops buzzing. “Lovely. This should tell us what we need to know.” He pauses, glancing down. “...Shirogane, you’ve broken your chair.”  
Shiro glances blurrily down at his prosthetic hand, lifting it slowly to reveal fingerprints in the metal underneath it. “Oh,” he says.

**  
\--  
**

“He kept video records,” says Lotor. “Look, here. The idiot… Well, I’m sure he made a pretty penny selling the best fights as home entertainment--”  
“Well, I hate that,” says Shiro. It comes out more sincere than he meant it to, and Allura glances at him, frowning.  
“...I think this one might be yours,” says Lotor.

“I’m sure it’ll all come back to you eventually,” says Allura, squeezing his shoulder.  
Shiro shakes his head, covering his eyes with one hand. “...I’m not sure I want it to.”

**  
\--  
**

“That’s messed up,” says Keith in a strained voice. “Shiro, why didn’t you tell--”  
“He didn’t know until today,” says Allura, shifting in front of Shiro ever so slightly.

**  
\--  
**

“I know why you’re doing this!” calls Alfor, his face a picture of pained compassion. “You wanted Daibazaal to be next! The glory of inheriting Voltron--”  
“No, you fool!”

**

“Honerva, I...I still…”  
“Wait,” says Lotor. “Wait just a quiznak tick--Madame Honerva is my mother?”

**

“We were an empire once! We will be again!”  
“Oh,” says Allura, glancing at Lotor. “I forgot you also had these. Gracious, imperialists are horrible. Empires as a whole? Horrible.”  
“The worst,” Lotor agrees.

**

“I am Voltron,” they say as one.  
And they are. Voltron knows, sees, and feels as all five of them. It’s not a loss of self, as some of their components were afraid it would be. It’s an addition of self. Voltron is one from the many; they relish in their new skills on knowledge, the clarity of this moment.

**  
\--  
**

“I’m sorry about Matt and Sam. I didn’t mean to--”  
“It’s not your fault.”  
“What?”  
“It’s not your fault,” says Pidge again, more emphatically. “I...I’m not sure I ever even really thought it was. I was just angry at you because it felt like you were the reason my family was going through hell. But...it turns out you were going through worse.” They pause nervously, pushing their glasses up their nose. “So I’m sorry. Uh. It was pretty cool being Voltron with everyone. Sorry this took me so long.”

**

“Now,” says Lotor, “I do believe we are owed a little alone time before the Convocation ends…”  
Allura smiles, narrowing her eyes. “You just want to distract yourself from--”  
“Let’s not even talk about it!”  
“No, let’s not,” says Shiro, and reaches up to grab Lotor’s collar and pull him down into a hard kiss. After a few seconds, he lets go, turns to Allura, and lets her take his waist and dip him dramatically over, her lips tenderly meeting his as they hang there.  
“...Yes, yes, you’re both very strong and we can all kiss Shirogane now,” says Lotor after a few more seconds. “Can we please go? I have the largest bed. Let’s go, right now.”


End file.
